


Just One More Breath

by ashdeanmanns



Series: In All Our Years [4]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Autobiography, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, Gay Pride, Gay Steve Rogers, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pride Parades, Protective Steve Rogers, Recovery, Romance, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Switch Steve Rogers, Top Bucky Barnes, Wedding Night, Writer Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:26:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24501568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashdeanmanns/pseuds/ashdeanmanns
Summary: 1947 - Bucky Barnes is liberated from the Valkyrie crash2018 - Bucky Barnes and Steve Rogers, criminals of war, reunite with the Avengers to stop Thanos2023 - Bruce Banner snapped his fingers, to bring half of the universe back to life.Steve had witnessed a multitude of Bucky's moods, his range of personalities. Tired after a long day of work, nostalgic, doting on the younger members of his family, military-beaten veteran.But he had never before seen Bucky so broken.And maybe those broken pieces would never heal. Maybe they had always been broken, but every new impact sent more cracks spiraling across the glass.This was a tipping point - between the beginning, and the unavoidable ending.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: In All Our Years [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574968
Comments: 9
Kudos: 23





	1. Story/Author Update

I had to write this twice because I clicked the wrong thing and it deleted ):

So. My life's kind of shit right now.

1) I'm waiting for a surgery confirmation. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, but I need a fucking win.

2) I'm having a lot of writer's block for this. I know exactly where I'm going with this Part, and it's really fucking sad, and I'm shying away from it. My mental health has been sucky lately, and while writing does help me cope, the ending I have planned is going to be really hard for me to write. I also have to watch Far From Home for this first chapter, because the scripts aren't fully updated, and I keep pushing it off. I'll try to get to it as soon as possible, but a bunch of things keep coming up and I keep putting it off even more.

3) We're coming up on the one year anniversary of my dad's death, so that's fUn -_-

4) My dad got two cats in 2011. Siegfried and Brunhilde, Siggy and Bruni, cousins. When my dad died, I took Siggy with me when I moved back to my mom's. It was a very hard move, for so many reasons, and Sig really helped make it better. He had to leave the only home he had ever lived in, two cats he knew, for a new house and two new cats. Then another new house. That stress worsened his kidney disease, which he was originally in the early stages of and moving slowly through.

A month or two ago, we learned that he had it, and was over halfway through stage three and quickly progressing. My mom left all of the decisions regarding him up to me. I voted for painkillers, to make him comfortable, because the medications we could put him on had little chance of working, or at least working in time (the vet told us that we had a couple weeks to a few months, it was just a waiting game.) We had the option of a blood pressure pill, but we rent, and we promised the landlord when he begrudgingly let us keep the cats that we would keep the place clean. The BPM would’ve caused some accidents, and Sig was already having trouble with the litter box. But he’s very sensitive to the painkiller he was prescribed, and becomes intoxicated. Can’t walk very well, and the other night he was catatonic. Fell asleep with his eyes open, shallow breathing, didn’t respond to my mom shaking him or lifting his head and letting it fall three times. We thought that night, a couple days ago, was going to be the last.

We took him to the vet today. He has an ear infection, a urinary tract infection, dementia (he bit me the other day, which he doesn’t do), a heart murmur (congestive heart failure is a sign of kidney failure), and is in the final part of stage three. He’s being put down this Thursday. And I’m really struggling. I need a freaking win.

5) I'm starting school in September, when the funding levey failed and in the middle of a pandemic, and the school district has no idea what the fuck they're doing and it's strEssing ME oUt

6) This is a formal apology for something I added mainly in Rule The World or Drown. During this BLM movement, I learned that I was lied to about the original meaning of the Thin Blue Line Flag. Which, in this story, Bucky had a suit modeled after because I had that different understanding. I was going off that original meaning that I believed it had, and I want to apologize for that. I don't support racism in any way. I shouldn't have to back that up with the fact that, though I appear white, I have Middle Eastern roots. I feel horrible that I included it, and immediately went back to edit it when I learned. Instead of being modeled after the thin blue line, though it still has a similar color scheme, it is now modeled after what Bucky wore as a Howling Commando. I was going to write this apology when I posted a new chapter, but that hasn't happened for a little while, and I felt the need to get this out. This was just a good time for it, so I took advantage of it.


	2. 2020

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, peeps!
> 
> It's finally here! Just One More Breath contains the final four chapters of this series!
> 
> This chapter took very long. And I'm so sorry. But I did a lot more than it seems! I wrote parts for the next three chapters, including the final scene that makes me sob whenever I open it.
> 
> I had my surgery! Everything's going really well, recovery wise, beyond some swelling and the mental/emotional side effects from the anesthesia they used to put me under.
> 
> This was written through writer's block, brain fog, and headaches/migraines, so I apologize if it falls short. I even trimmed down some scenes, because I was having so much trouble. But the next chapters will be much better!

**| 2023 |**

Steve stumbled, palms scraping against a dirty piece of broken cement as he caught his fall. He made his way to where the team was lingering, a sorrowful silence surrounding them.

Clint unsteadily sunk down on one knee, collapsing once he was halfway to the ground. And with him, the others - many Steve could say he knew, but some were complete strangers - dropped down, some with exhaustion sucking at their limbs, others with straight spines and strong frames.

Then, finally, he saw the reason for it.

Rhodes, weighed down by his suit and grief, held on to Peter's shaking shoulders. Pepper and Bucky were on either side of Tony Stark's body - Pepper, with her hand underneath Tony's, over his arc reactor; Bucky with his palm light against the burned, ruined skin on his neck, head bowed.

Tony's head gradually turned - away from Pepper after she pressed a tearful kiss to his cheek - toward Bucky. A tremor went through Bucky's shoulders, his face contorted, and he dropped his forehead against Tony's temple.

Steve fell to one knee beside Clint, whose face was eerily blank. His nerves were too still, beyond the downward twitch of his mouth. Steve straightened his spine, though his entire body protested.

_It was only right._

No one moved a muscle, for who even knew how long. Until Rhodes put his hands on Pepper and Bucky's shoulders, and neither of them looked up. Bucky's head stayed ducked beside Tony's, his eyes unable to meet the dull glass directly in front of him.

Rhodes pulled at Bucky's shoulder, forcing him to look up - Bucky's eyes immediately trained on Steve. He jumped up and raced toward him - Steve pushed himself to his feet just in time to catch him in his arms, their chests pressed and legs suddenly tangled. Bucky threw his arms over his shoulders, pushing his face into his neck. Steve was thankful to again feel Bucky's long waves tickling his cheek, the weight of his body against his own. To just feel him again, all of him, and not the ashes that stuck to his fingertips.

Bucky sighed, hot against his throat. "How long?"

"Five years."

Bucky's bones gave way, falling limp in his arms. He opened his mouth, but closed it again when he found he had nothing to say. Before he could think of something, Steve intervened, desperately, " _Don't_." He softened his tone, murming into his jaw, "Please, don't."

They stayed silent, choosing to hold each other's trembling bodies. The two of them fit together perfectly; it made everything right. Bucky pressed little butterfly kisses up and down Steve's throat, the two of them holding each other as close as they could.

"Buck?"

"Hm?"

"Will you marry me?"

Bucky pulled back, so their eyes could lock together. He looked devastated, but somehow in a good way, indicated by the little upward twitches of the corners of his mouth. He slid his arms from around Steve's shoulders, until his hands framed his jaw and he was able to guide them into a soft kiss - barely a kiss, just a soft brush that sent shivers down Steve's spine.

The funeral came barely two days later, while they had everyone nearby. Bucky's eyes watered at seeing the old arc reactor beside Nat's widow's bites, and he leaned heavily into Steve's torso. Steve didn't say a word, just tucked his hand into the curve of Bucky's hip and pulled him in close.

They all had a rough night, from the battle to the funeral. Pepper had everyone - that needed it - in hotel rooms in the city. She placed Steve, Bucky, Clint, Wanda, and Sam together in something big enough to be the first floor of a house, something Steve wouldn't feel comfortable calling a hotel room. But he just held Wanda in his arms, unable to convince himself to stop embracing her. She didn't seem put off by it, having an arm looped around his shoulders. He couldn't give words to how much he had missed Wanda and their friendship. They relearned American pop culture together, competing in how fast they could read books, watching Disney and DreamWorks movies before moving on to whatever people around them believed they had to watch. She had comforted him when he teared up during Up, and he had done the same for her when they watched Frozen.

And Sam...Sam was still as sensitive, kind, and sarcastic as Steve had been desperate for him to be these past five years. He checked in on everyone, caught up with Steve, and he was just - he was Sam. And while this was happening, Clint had pulled Bucky to a side room in their hotel and told him what had happened on Vormir. They didn't leave that bedroom until long after they had both stopped crying over the abused girl they had cherished and cared for in their own ways.

It seemed like Bucky's eyes were permanently rimmed in red, the whites bloodshot. Surrounded by friends, family, and strangers; he murmured close to Steve's ear, "I never got to make it up to him."

Steve squeezed his hip. "He knew. I made sure of it," he whispered. Bucky had to know that. Steve and Tony had become friends during the gap. He visited at least once a month, Morgan called him Uncle Steve. Tony fought for him, instead of targeting him like he had in Siberia.

Bucky suddenly jumped under his arm, his neck going tense. Steve looked over his shoulder, not surprised to see Thor with his hand on Bucky's bicep. The God of Thunder said, "Your daughters are here."

"Dad?" Chrys's voice made its way across the Stark-Potts property, a hint of hysteria to it. At hearing her, Bucky immediately broke out from his hold, pushing past Thor and the rest of the Avengers on the dock. Steve followed, watching Bucky run and throw his arms around Chrys.

To Bucky, he hadn't seen his daughters in two years. For Bianca, it had been the same. But to Chrys, it had been seven.

Chrysanthemum Barnes held on to her father with strong arms, hands either gripping his shoulder or holding a fistful of his black jacket. She pressed her face into his collar, hiding her watering eyes.

Bianca folded her arms over the both of them, squeezing them for a minute. She then pressed a kiss to Bucky's cheek, and carried on to where Pepper and the Avengers were retreating from the edge of the narrow dock. Steve turned and watched her, as she walked toward Pepper and Morgan with purpose, her chocolate brown curls bouncing as she moved. They shared soft words, before the two women embraced.

Steve knew Bianca loved Tony. ( _"I'll always love him. I believe him, when he said that the woman came on to him. But he still let it happen, and I can't forgive him for that."_ ) He hadn't been around to see it, but she and Bucky had mentioned it before. He made a mental note to give her a big hug soon, then looked away and ended up making eye contact with Henry behind Chrys. He sent the man a small smile, walking past Bucky and Chrys to speak to him, greeting him with a gentle, "Hey," though he really wanted to ask; _Where's West? Didn't he come back, too?_

Henry studied him for a few moments before saying, "Chrys's husband..." He fixed his teeth around his bottom lip, anxiously, before going on, "He just appeared out of nowhere, and immediately had a stroke."

Steve balked. "I -" It took him a few tries to get the words, but he was finally able to choke out, "Did she tell May and Dylan?"

Henry shook his head, sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks. "No. But I'm excited to get to finally meet Chrys's kids," he confessed with a slight, quickly-vanishing smile. "She didn't talk about them too much, it would get her all worked up, so...this'll be nice, I hope."

In all truth, Steve liked Henry. He was supportive when Steve brought Bucky's belongings to put in storage in the basement, he made good comfort food and always made sure to make extra for Steve to take leftovers back to the Compound. He gave good advice, he was a great listener. He treated Chrys how she deserved.

"I think they'll like you, just give them time to get used to you being here and their dad not," Steve told him, speaking softly. "And, for the record, I think Bucky will like you, too."

"Who am I supposed to like?" Bucky asked, voice slightly tight.

Steve and Henry both turned their attention toward the father and daughter that had yet to break away from each other. Chrys kept an arm around Bucky's waist, while Bucky held her close against his side.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, breaking away from him. She sidled up beside Henry. "Dad. This is Henry. Henry, this is Bucky."

"Do I have to call you Mr. Barnes?" Henry joked, reaching out with his right hand.

Bucky chuckled, not hesitating for even a second as he stepped forward to clasp Henry's hand, giving it one good shake before letting go. "No, not at all. Um," he glanced over his shoulder for just a moment, at the dock. Steve followed his gaze, seeing May and Peter tentatively coming closer. Bucky stepped out of the way, and May rushed toward her mother.

Peter stopped between Steve and Bucky, and Steve didn't hesitate to pull the boy in. Peter got an arm around his waist, wordlessly squeezing him back.

Bucky tossled Peter's hair, smoothing the strands back as he gently checked in, "How're you doing, kiddo?"

"I can't believe any of this."

Bucky nodded, eyes watering and shining, for the umpteenth time. Holding himself together, he said with a breaking voice, "I can't either. I've known them both for so long, it's just - I'm not going to be accepting it for a while. I didn't with my mom."

"Your dad?"

Steve patted his shoulder. "George Barnes could've died in a ditch, and still would no one have cared."

Peter nodded. Though he wasn't blood relation, his guardian was, and he had heard bits and pieces of the past family members. He leaned his head against Steve's side, his chest, before turning his face into his body. Steve and Bucky's gazes locked as they heard a reluctant sniffle. If he was being honest, Steve was surprised that Peter hadn't yet moved over to hug Bucky. They were so close; Bucky had done what he could to make tiny, grieving Peter part of the family, make him know that there was still family for him whenever he needed them. And when Peter was shaking and sick, couldn't get up from the bathroom floor in the empty apartment while May was at work, he called Bucky because, somehow, Bucky always knew what to do.

At some point, people started to leave. Thor was getting on a ship with the so-called Guardians of the Galaxy, Happy and Morgan sat on the porch while Pepper and Bianca spoke inside over cups of coffee. Carol squeezed Steve's shoulder and gave him a sad little smile, before leaving in a car with Fury and Hill. May and Peter lingered for a while, as Clint and Wanda did at the side of the pond, beside an overhanging tree.

But there was work to do.

Steve changed in the bathroom inside the cabin, making sure everything was situated before he activated the Quantum Travel suit. He went outside, to the back of the cabin, where Bruce and Sam waited with the hastily built time machine, for only this purpose.

"Now remember," Bruce began to lecture, as Steve was getting everything situated, inserting the particles Hank Pym had donated to the cause, "You have to return the stones to the exact moment you got them. Or you're gonna open up a bunch of nasty alternative realities."

"Don't worry, Bruce," he reassured. "Clip all the branches."

There was a beat of silence, before the scientist said, guiltily, "You know, I tried. When I had the gauntlet, the stones, I really tried to get her back." He looked up from the control panel. "I miss her."

"Me, too." That's all he could say, if he didn't want to break down. He couldn't. He didn't have the time to rebuild himself. He turned away from Bruce, to Sam, who waited with his arms crossed over his chest.

"You know, if you want, I can come with you."

Steve couldn't help the little smile that curled upon his lips. "Sam, you're a good man, but I've already got my partner in crime."

"So how does this work?" Bucky came to a stop beside Bruce at the control panel. The familiarity between them was astounding, the understanding and kindness toward each other. Bucky hadn't been at all deterred when he saw that Bruce was now a mix of both parts of himself, was excited and happy that Bruce had been strong enough to work it out.

As they went through the rundown, Bucky activating the Quantum Travel suit and Bruce giving him a tutorial in the GPS, Steve looked back to Sam. Who, of course, looked exasperated.

"You really trust Mr. I'll Jump Off of Anything more than me?"

"Well, I think all three of us will jump off anything. You've just got an unfair advantage."

The man scoffed, uncrossing his arms to clap Steve on the back. But it somehow ended up that they were hugging. Just in case anything happened.

Bucky came up beside them, making them pull apart. He and Sam shared a quick, though none less meaningful, hug. "Who gets what?"

"You," Steve started, turning to unclip one of the small stone cases that rested on the steps leading up to the platform. Seeing what he needed, he closed it back up and held it out to Bucky, "are going to 1993 and 2012."

Bucky didn't question it, just took the case held out to him. "What about you?"

"2014. Vormir and Asgard."

A grin tugged at Bucky's lips, and he scooped up Mjolnir while he had the opportunity. He tossed Mjolnir in the air with a little twist, catching the handle again with ease. Steve remembered Bucky grabbing the weapon in battle, summoning a mighty throng of lightning and blasting a whole section of Thanos's alien army before continuing to run with the gauntlet under his arm. "You never told me you were worthy."

Bucky shrugged. "It - It didn't seem important." He pointed at Steve with the head of the hammer, "What is important is that you're stealing my lifelong dream of going to Asgard."

Though he knew he was joking, Steve explained, "You're going to 1983 for a specific reason Buck. Once you get there, you'll understand."

Bucky nodded, and held Mjolnir out to him. Steve took it, and Bucky scooped up the scepter before starting up the little steps. Steve followed, picking up the last case.

On the platform, they faced each other, and Bucky leaned over to set Mjolnir down, straightening up again to pull Steve in for a kiss. It was sweet, leaving Steve with a little smile as they pulled away. "Don't do anything stupid," the brunet pleaded, a warning in his voice.

"You're taking all the stupid with you," Steve played along, leaning in to get another quick kiss before they separated. He paused for a moment, before adding, "It's gonna be okay, Buck."

"I know. It's gotta be."

"Ready, Caps? We'll meet you both back here in five seconds."

"Sound logic," Bucky murmured.

"We're ready," Steve called over, tightening his fingers around the handle of the scepter.

Bruce readied the machine, which whirred around them. "Going quantum in three, two, o -"

< | >

Their marriage was far from a fancy affair. They got their license two weeks after the battle, got married in City Hall, had a family dinner with the Barnes', and then they planned to hole up in a hotel room for a week. That first night, Bucky peppered gentle kisses everywhere he could reach, settled in his rightful place between Steve's thighs. 

"We'll do something better, once all this settles down," Steve promised, breathless, clinging to Bucky - his _husband_.

He wasn't sure if he'd ever really be able to believe that.

"I have all that backpay, we could go somewhere really nice and warm -" he broke off with a soft moan, instinctively pulling Bucky in for even more kisses, even though it seemed like they had been doing that for ages.

"Doesn't matter, do whatever you want. Getting away from this would be nice," Bucky murmured into their sloppy kisses, his hips working magic. "All I need is you."

With one particularly sharp snap of Bucky's hips, Steve was done for - physically and emotionally. Tears quickly welled in his eyes, overflowing to streak down his temples and soak into his hairline. Bucky immediately froze and folded his face in his hands, stroking calloused thumbs over pale cheekbones.

"Hey, Stevie. Breathe. Talk to me."

"You're here." Steve slipped his hands around Bucky's shoulders, entwined his fingers on the nape of his neck, and hauled him down into a hard kiss, instead of something light. Bucky gladly went along with it, parting his lips with his own. "Fuck - We're married."

He just chuckled and traced the tip of his nose over Steve's cheek, and pressed his lips to the curve of his jaw. "Yeah. Because you look _ravishing_ in my sweatpants."

Steve withdrew his hands, only to slide his arms under Bucky's and trail his fingers down his smooth back. He took hold of soft, firm skin, and pulled Bucky harder against him, pressing him further into his body. His husband gasped brokenly against his throat, and he committed the raw sound to memory.

Their week turned into four days. When their plans got pushed to the side, Steve began to round the days and promise himself it had been most of a week, he got his money's worth.

The newlyweds raced to the house Steve had gotten to know during the five-year-gap, as he and Chrys grew closer over dinners, movies, old family videos that made his heart ache, and late night conversations when they knew there was nothing to do. Bucky and Peggy's suburban home was beyond nice, a place Steve had once only been able to dream of, an idea in his head when he thought about a far-off future with Bucky.

Bucky parked the car and they ran inside, not bothering to knock. Bucky stormed to the living room, worry clear in his tight posture. After they got a text from Rhodes saying 911 and getting no response, Bucky had been adamant on getting to his friend.

Morgan beamed at them before jumping off the couch and landing on Rhodey's stomach. The man let out a loud, guttural groan, rolling onto his side as soon as the girl was off him and racing toward the newlyweds, cheering on repeat, "Uncle Steve!"

The tension in Bucky's shoulders deflated at seeing that everyone was okay, and Steve caught the four year old in his arms when she jumped at him. In a gentle, though reprimanding, tone, Steve reminded her, "Morg, stealing phones is bad."

She pulled her cheek from where she had pressed it into his chest. "Peter fell in the lava."

Without missing a beat, Bucky's eyebrows arched. "Peter fell in the lava?"

She inclined her head, in confirmation. "Yup. And Daddy always says that it's against the rules to fall in the lava, so you have to go to time out if you do." She looked up, and Steve and Bucky followed her gaze. Bucky was unfazed, but Steve startled a little at seeing the sixteen year old hanging upside down from the ceiling.

Bucky gestured at Peter with his chin. "How's it hanging?" 

Peter smirked. "Pretty hot up here. Burning up."

"You don't talk in time out!" Morgan insisted, glaring up at him.

The teenager, who probably hadn't been in time out for years, immediately cowered under her strong glare. "Yeah. Sorry, sorry."

Bucky turned his eyes back down to Morgan, giving her a stern look that made her lean away in Steve's arms. "Falling in lava isn't an emergency, little miss."

"But I missed you guys," she whined, sweetness turning her voice sour.

"Yeah, we missed you, too. But you took Rhodey's phone and made us worry." Leaning closer to her ear, he stage-whispered, "You interrupted my honeymoon. How dare you." He blew a raspberry against her cheek, and Steve let him take her from his arms. 

She let out a shriek of a giggle, writhing in Bucky's iron hold. "No! No, don't!"

"Really? I can dunk you in the lava. Try me!" He quickly let her go and took hold of her thin calves, letting her flip over and hang upside down. Morgan couldn't stop laughing, so hard that she was shaking. Rhodes caught her hands, and they began to swing her like she was a hammock.

Steve turned away and started toward the kitchen, where Chrys, Bianca, May, and Pepper were lounging at the bar. He leaned his elbows on the countertop as Pepper asked, "So how was the honeymoon, while it lasted?" apology heavy in her voice.

"No," Chrys pleaded, though her voice was neutral and calm. "I've already seen the drawings, I don't need to know about the honeymoon."

Steve winced, but didn't say a word in edgewise. Instead, he explained, "Once the world becomes quiet again, we're going to go on a vacation. We're thinking Hawaii. I've never been, Bucky was there for a short time in the eighties and never got back."

May smiled. "Sounds like a good plan."

"Are you attacking my kid, Barnes?"

Bucky glanced over at the kitchen, halting in his spinning. He smiled at Pepper. "Of course not." He swung Morgan onto the cushion of an overstuffed chair. "Pete, your time out's done."

"Oh, thank god. I was getting flashbacks to kindergarten." Peter flipped as he dropped down to the floor, landing on his feet.

Chrys suddenly exclaimed unintelligibly and pointed at Bucky, who widened his eyes in response. "Lizzie wanted me to tell you something. She couldn't get ahold of you."

He was immediately at Steve's side, asking, "What's the message?"

"She needs to give the family home to someone new. She's finally moving to a nursing home, thank god." She tapped the counter with her fingernails, a sharp, plasticky sound. "She said Grandma and Aunt El would want you two to have it."

At hearing this, they both froze. Steve could barely wrap his head around it. He and Bucky could have a house, just like they'd always wanted -

_Maybe they just had to get through hell, serve their time, before they were able to have the good things. And each other._

After an achingly long amount of silence, Steve whispered, "Are you serious?"

"Lizzie said that if you didn't take it, she'd keep paying the bills until one of the kids moves out."

Slowly, a soft smile rested on Bucky's face, and he nudged his elbow into Steve's side. "Ready for your studio?"

< | >

Bucky laughed as Steve flipped them over, tightening his fingers in his hair and locking his legs around his waist. 

It was one of the rare times where Steve could convince Bucky to let him be on top, for a change. It wasn't that he thought there was anything wrong with it, Steve knew that and used it to his advantage in times like this - from the lewd rambling he got in his ear when Bucky had been able to get drunk years ago, it was because he liked the way Steve felt around him, how he took pride in being the one to render Steve's loud mouth speechless, to make his little body tremble and be the reason he couldn't thread his thoughts and words together.

Steve thought that the way Bucky's hair spread out along the pillow was heavenly, but the curve of his smiling lips was absolute sin. He loved this. He loved him. Had always loved Bucky for everything he was worth, with whatever he had in him -

"Steve -" Bucky gasped, squeezing his shoulder blade as best as he could. Could feel the skin break underneath his nails, strength and love and passion swirling together to create this overly powerful creature that now possessed them both.

"Right here," he grunted, voice deep, throat tight. He squeezed one hand around the headboard, thrusting harder once, twice, thrice, before easing back up again. Bucky looked up at him with such an expression that was so hard to ignore even if Steve had wanted to, and he ducked back down to sweetly kiss him, cradling his jaw. "Bucky. Love you, so much."

He didn't get the response he expected. Instead, slowly, Bucky's head fell into his hand. Eyes stuck open, unseeing, far away 

He wasn't just limp. He was a dead-weight.

Steve froze, and pulled their bodies apart. He clambered to Bucky's side, sliding his hands around the back of his neck, the heels cradling his jaw, and pulled his head up. "Buck?" The gaze didn't change.

He had no idea what to do. He recognized the thousand yard stare - he was a soldier, a prisoner of war, of course he did. He perfected it in captivity, to protect himself. He knew a good amount about disassociation, through the therapy he's been doing the past couple years.

He just had no idea what had caused Bucky to be unresponsive.

The only thing he could think of was to shock him with water, but he knew that would make the condition worse. He started rattling through the procedures and methods in his head. Ice cubes, no. Shower, no. Naming things or keeping him talking by making lists wouldn't work, he had completely checked out. What movies did he like? He liked The Crow, but those sounds weren't going to comfort him. There wasn't much Steve could do, at the moment.

So he did what any sensible human would do and called Sam, who picked up on the fifth dial tone; "What's up, Rogers?" huffing and puffing, probably having just finished up a run.

"I have no idea what happened, but Bucky's unresponsive."

"...Unresponsive how?"

"He just went limp, all of a sudden." He waved his hand over Bucky's unfocused eyes. "He has a thousand yard stare. It's been over five minutes. The only thing I can think to do is shock his system, but anything I could do would just push him further in."

"Yeah, I get it. I'm on my way, give me, what, a half hour? Make him feel safe, keep on talking to him. Maybe play one of his many playlists. If anything happens, tell me." 

"You're a lifesaver, Wilson."

"I know, I know." He hung up, and Steve reached across Bucky's body to one of the night sands, scooping up Bucky's phone. He unlocked it and easily found Spotify, scrolling through his playlists before selecting a soft one that he knew made Bucky feel calm and content. And since Sam was on his way, Steve dropped both phones and slipped off the bed, putting on sweats and a T-shirt, and, taking his time, managed to get fleece pajama pants and socks on Bucky's limp body. He hated it, but it had to be done.

Praying that their erections would go down in time, Steve moved to lay at Bucky's side, gathering him in his arms. He dropped a kiss to Bucky's hair, and then rested his cheek there, palm over his beating heart.

He couldn't be scared. Yeah, he'd never seen Bucky quite like this - he had disassociated before, sure, but he had never become fully unresponsive - but it was a normal, psychological phenomenon that Steve, personally, understood very well. He had to be here for him. He gave Bucky a comforting little squeeze, dropping a kiss to his temple. "Hey, Buck," he whispered. "I hope you're doing alright, wherever you are. There are so many happy places you could have, I wonder where you'd go if you could. You and Grant's little forts would be nice? Or maybe it's someplace you traveled? Hawaii was incredible. The sun, the way the moon sparkled on the water. And, looking back on it, the crabs were really cute. That little blue crab that you picked up was adorable. Spikey. You named him Studs." He paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Your tan was gorgeous. And I actually tanned for once, instead of just burning. I had to get through that stage, but afterward it was worth it. You liked how my hair practically turned white from the sun bleaching it. You looked pretty good with those blond edges."

He kept mindlessly talking, soft voice and even softer words, until he heard Sam's car pull up. He heard the car door open and close, the clatter of metal against cement and a harsh swear, and then Sam coming inside with the key he had to the place. Footsteps in the stairwell, and finally the devil himself coming in through the open doorway, a plastic bag hooked through his fingertips.

"What all have you done?"

"Music," he immediately answered. "Talked to him about Hawaii."

"Mentioned Stubs?" Bucky had brought his polaroid, and Stubs was the model of multiple images.

"Stubs makes him smile, so yes."

"Alright." Sam dropped the plastic bag down onto the foot of the bed, not even questioning the state of dress-versus-undress they were in. Pulled out a pack of plastic sticks, took one out. "This is gonna stink, so plug that cyborg nose of yours up."

As he cracked the stick, kind of like a glow-stick. Steve, thanks to his super-soldier-ness, gagged and coughed into the crook of his elbow, keeping himself turned away but not enough that he couldn't see what was happening. Sam brought the smell stick underneath Bucky's nose, waving it around ever so slightly to waft off the fumes.

It took a few achingly long moments, but Bucky coughed and shoved Sam's wrist away. He turned into Steve's body, instead of just laying against him on his back, eyes blinking open. They were glassy, unaware. But his system had been woken up, and that's all Steve cared about.

"Wha...what?" Bucky asked, groggy and not all there. "Steve -?"

"Right here. I'm right here." He brought a hand up to cradle Bucky's jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek.

"Honey..." Bucky's head fell against his collar, nose pushed into his skin.

Steve glanced over at Sam, who looked up from where he had securely tied the plastic bag around the open smell stick. He nodded and made a 'go-on' gesture, darting into the connected master bathroom to wash his hands multiple times. So Steve rested his chin on Bucky's head, squeezing him and holding him as close as he could. "You doing okay, Buck?"

"...I..." He went quiet, and Steve just let him process. "I don't know."

"That's okay," he whispered. "Just take your time."

Bucky gently nodded, and turned his shoulders to put both arms around Steve's abdomen, effectively burying his nose in the crook of Steve's neck.

"I'm gonna run out," Sam whispered as he came back into the room - hands covered in the scented Bath and Body Works hand-sanitizer that just brought an unexplainable joy to Steve - and the blond looked back up. "Mexican food sound good? Or Thai?"

"Either is fine. You can take my card, if you want...Thank you."

"You're welcome, man. No problem. Anything, for the two of you." Sam looked down at Bucky, worry heavy in his eyes. "Just give him time. He may fall asleep. If not, he'll probably be out if it for a little bit."

Steve nodded, and let his chin fall back down on Bucky's head as Sam left the room.

Bucky did fall asleep. And Steve just held on fast to him, humming the little lullaby Sarah Rogers had once used for him and for Bucky. Somehow switching to the Hebrew song Winifred Barnes had loved. When Sam got back, he finally let Bucky go, resituating him and tucking him in before walking downstairs to meet Sam in the kitchen.

Sam glanced up when he entered, eyebrow quirked in question.

"He fell asleep. We can put his food in the fridge for later."

"Cashew chicken and stir fried morning glory, as always." Sam held up the container and waved it side to side as he walked over to the fridge, opening the door to set it on one of the shelves. He brought his gaze back to Steve's as he returned to the used space at the counter. "Plates or containers?"

"Containers." He moved to get silverware from a drawer, but Sam slapped the back of his left hand with a plastic-wrapped plastic silverware pack. Steve accepted it, picked up his meal once Sam had taken his own, and they took a seat at the dinged up dining table that had been in that exact spot for decades, that had seen better days.

"So what caused that?"

"I thought you had a rule, keep friends and work separate."

"When your friends are the stubborn super soldiers from the early nineteen-hundreds, that line begins to blur." He shrugged one shoulder, elbows set on the table. "Bucky refuses to get help. He thinks it's all -"

"That it's all too much, and they'll have to sign 'NDA's up the wazoo,'" he finished for him, and Sam solemnly nodded as he began to eat, waiting for Steve to answer. "You're going to hate me if I tell you what happened."

He just rolled his eyes. Finishing his bite, he protested, "I've seen that man a lot of ways. I promise I won't be scarred."

Steve cocked his head, an amused smile tugging at his lips. "So you want to hear about sex life?"

"How the hell did that make him go out the back door?"

Now he was at a loss for words. Helplessly, he shrugged, sighing out, "I don't know. He was laughing, and then all of a sudden he was just gone. I feel awful. I don't even know what I did."

"My sweet dumb blond, we both know that trauma doesn't defer between logic and unreasonable. I doubt anything was your fault. Especially if it was all...normal. Now eat your eggplant."

Huffing, Steve looked down at his eggplant and pork. He tore open the silverware package, hating the sound of it, but set everything aside but the pork and speared a green bean, carrot, and piece of eggplant.

"Have you thought about a service dog?" Sam suddenly asked, out of the blue. When Steve just looked at him with wide eyes, he added, "For one or the both of you. If Bucky refuses therapy, it wouldn't be a horrible idea."

"Bucky doesn't want to lose anything else." Anything beyond what he already has to go through.

The other man looked down into his container, understanding exactly what Steve meant.

The silence hung over them, and they decided to just focus on eating. Steve tried to, at least. But Bucky being upstairs and in pain, it was hard. But finally, finally, after the containers were pushed aside, Bucky's unsteady footsteps were heard on the stairwell, and Steve's back went straight as he came back to attention.

"What happened?" he asked, voice deep from sleep, hair even more messed up than it had been before.

"You lost some time."

Bucky took a moment to process the information, but then nodded. _More of the future that he didn't have to sit through._ Knowing that, Steve pursed his lips.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," he snapped, but the venom wasn't there.

"Like what?" Steve had to ask, his brows furrowing.

"Like I'm a puppy that was just kicked! I'm fine. Really. I'm gonna go about my day - Thai."

"Cashew chicken's in the fridge," Sam chimed.

"Sam, my gorgeous angel, thank you." Bucky made his way past them and into the kitchen, opening the fridge, barely even looking before he spotted his takeout container. He stretched up to grab a plate from the cabinet, emptying it out onto the porcelain and then popping it into the microwave. He glared down at the spinning plate through the door, mouth tightly pursed. When it was done, ridded of the chill the fridge had brought on it, Bucky picked up the hot plate with no regard to his uncovered skin, only stopped from grabbing a fork when Sam waved a plastic pack, and sat down at Steve's side.

Besides the screech of Bucky breaking the plastic and him eating, there was nothing. Even when Sam widened his eyes at Steve and subtly jerked his head to the side, toward the stairwell. Telling Steve to leave.

He didn't want to. But who was he to not listen to Sam?

He stood up, telling Bucky, "I'm gonna head upstairs. Straighten things up." From behind, he gave him a little hug, pressing a short kiss to his temple, running his fingers through his hair as he pulled away.

As he barely ever did, training himself to ignore most things on an every day basis, he made a solid effort to pay complete attention to his surroundings. Rifling through the whir of the heat, the creaking of the settling floors, chitters of bugs down in the untouched basement, the ticking of clocks, he focused in on Sam and Bucky's voices down in the dining room. Still in the front part of the house, just on the other side.

"I'm about to give you my _professional_ opinion, whether you want it or not.

Bucky groaned, a grumble in the back of his throat.

"You need some help, Buck. Not the kind where you help an old person carry their groceries, you're perfectly capable of that yourself - you need medical attention from a mental health specialist."

Bucky scoffed. "Yeah, cause they're qualified to hear everything wrong in my life. They'd have to sign NDAs up the wazoo," he dismissed, sounding offended and nihilistic. "I'm not doing that, Sam."

"Why not? You've said yourself that you know your head's fucked up. What's keeping you from it? And if it's some residual bullshit about sucking it up and being a man, I'll kick your ass into next week."

Tiredly; "No, Sam, it isn't. Not exactly." There was a pregnant pause, and Bucky sighed. "No one really cared what I wanted, when I got out of the ice. I guess they thought that because I picked the shield up in the first place, I'd want to keep it. Or maybe they just completely forgot that I was a human being and not a comic book character. When I was first Nomad, yeah, I was lonely. I was upset and angry, but...I was free. I didn't answer to anyone - not Peggy, the government, the people. I answered to myself. If I wanted pancakes, I'd get pancakes. If I wanted to climb the Golden Gate Bridge, I was going to fucking scale the Golden Gate Bridge. And then nine-eleven happened and I wanted to help. Fury roped me back into S.H.I.E.L.D.. I was never able to get back out. My head's always been fucked. It has been since I was a kid. But no one's ever cared, so I got used to keeping it to myself and powering through."

"Steve and I care. Bruce and Clint. Your daughters, your nieces and nephews, your grandchildren. You're family to all of us, man. You saw how the psych-center helped Steve. It really paved the way for him. Why can't you see that getting help has a chance of doing that for you, too?"

" _Sam_ ," he snapped, voice sharp. "This is no use unless I'm ready for it. I'm not. Let it go."

"You disassociated for over two hours, and you think I'm going to let it go?" 

"Yes, because you are my friend, and a professional. You've said yourself, 'you can't force others to get help, because it won't work if they aren't ready for it.'"

"If not for you, then for the people around you. You really scared Steve. He thought he did something wrong...Did he?"

" _Will you stop_?"

"If you tell us what it was, we may be able to prevent it -"

"What, so I have to go by James again?" He scoffed. "Fuck that."

"Buck -"

"It was the way he said my name. He was the last one to talk to me before I..." His voice died, and he was silent for a few moments. "It was the way he said my name, and all of a sudden my hands were gone." He then said, venomously, when Sam didn't respond, "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

When Sam responded, it wasn't close to anything Steve expected; "When I can't sleep, it's because I can hear Rhodey yelling for me. But I can't get to him, just like I couldn't get to Riley. I can't lay on my stomach anymore, because I can't see what's happening." Sharply; "Is that what _you_ wanted to hear?"

< | >

Through one of the windows of the quinjet, Bucky and Steve watched Peter stumbling through the rows of vibrantly colored tulips, in and unflatteringly orange, oversized athletic shirt. When the quinjet slowly came to drop to Earth, Bucky was immediately rushing to the door, Happy pressing buttons to open it and drop down the steps. Bucky didn't wait for it, just jumped, landing soundly on the dirt path between two rows of flowers.

"Peter!" He shouted over the roar of the turbines and engine, taking worried steps toward his family member. "Kiddo, are you okay?"

"Bucky?" The boy called, sounding desperate, in a way that just broke Steve's heart. "Is that you?"

Bucky obviously didn't know what to do with that, taking a moment before saying, "Of course, it's me!" and continuing forward. Steve rushed down the steps in front of Happy, both of them coming to join the other two down on the field.

Peter threw out a hand, and Bucky jerked back in surprise. " _Stop!_ Tell me something only you would know! All of you!"

"Something only I would know. Uh," Happy muttered beside Steve, under his breath. "You - I - Uh, Remember when we went to Germany? You pay-for-viewed a video in your room? They didn't list the titles, but I could tell by the price it was an adult film at the front desk. And you didn't know how I knew -"

Steve wrinkled his nose in Happy's direction, as Peter quickly stopped him in his tracks. "Okay! Okay! Fine, it's you, it's you, stop! You two, go."

"Thank you, for taking care of Alpine while Bucky and I were outlawed," Steve called over, wording carefully.

Peter didn't respond, instead swiveling his attention to Bucky. With the attention suddenly on him, he recounted, "After your parents died and you went into May's custody, you were having a really hard time. When you figured out that I was part of your family now, you had no idea what you were supposed to do. So I took you for a day, remember? Walked around Central Park, got ice cream. When I took you back to May and Ben, you gave me a big hug and thanked me for everything."

Peter basically deflated in his relief, and stumbled into Bucky's arms. Giving him a big hug, comparable to the one he must've given Bucky when he was eight. "It's so good to see you," he whispered, worn down by whatever he had experienced.

Bucky kissed the top of his head, rubbing his back. "You, too, bub. C'mon." He pulled away, and began to guide Peter toward the jet, supporting him as he limped. "What happened to you?"

"Got hit by a train," he grumbled.

Steve looked over his shoulder. "Did the train win?"

Peter took a moment to respond. "No."

"Good boy," he approved, quoting his mother whenever he asked if he won a fight or not and had. Understanding where he was coming from, Bucky huffed out a laugh as he walked behind Peter, up the steps. Once inside, Happy closed everything up, and opened little compartments to pull out supplies. Rubbing alcohol, bandages, stitch thread and a needle. Peter looked at them like they were the last thing he wanted to exist in the universe, and reluctantly sat down where Happy gestured for him to.

Bucky hopped up onto the seat in front of him, feet in the seat as he sat on the back. "What happened, kiddo?" he asked, as Steve just dropped into one across the aisle from them.

"I messed up," he said, looking up at Bucky. He glanced behind him for a second, before jerking his head back around so he didn't have to watch Happy prep everything. 

"How bad?"

"Big time." Peter winced, his hand curling into a fist as Happy disinfected the wound behind his shoulder, having torn the shirt even more to get to it. He stayed quiet, until Happy pushed the tip of the needle through the skin for the first time, letting out a gutteral grunt. "Tony left glasses for me. AI. I gave them to someone else, because it was for the next Iron Man, and I can't be the next Iron Man. Beck turned out to be - _jesus chri_ -" He broke off, neck visibly tight.

"Peter, you're have to tell us what the hell is going on here. Who's Beck?"

"He has the tech that Tony used for BARF."

Steve sat up straighter. He'd used that, as Tony was trying to figure it out. Been a willing test subject. Saw his mother again, sobbed when he was finally able to remember exactly what she looked like.

Peter flinched, sharply ducking his head down. Happy pressed, "I thought you had super strength."

"It still hurts," he muttered, absent.

"All right, relax. Just a few more...there we go."

The next push was a sharp jab, and Peter let out a sound and slammed the side of his fist on the table, eyes squeezed shut.

"Relax!" Happy exclaimed, exasperated.

He pushed himself up, a long strand of black thread hanging from his shoulder blade. "Don't tell me to relax! How can I relax when I've messed up so bad? I trusted Beck. Right? I thought he was my friend, so I gave him the only thing that Tony left behind for me, and now he's going to kill my friends and half of Europe - so please _do not_ tell me to relax." As if his strings were cut, unlike the stitches behind his shoulder, he sat down at a different seat, lips pursed for a few moments. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I shouldn't shout...I just really miss him."

"Yeah, I miss him too," Happy gently assured, and Steve found himself nodding. Tony wasn't the best person in the world, they didn't have the connection that he and Bucky always had, but he was thankful for what Tony did for him during his hearing. He loved Tony's daughter like crazy. The Starks were family.

Voice thick, Peter continued, "Everywhere I go, I see his face. And the whole world is asking who is going to be the next Iron Man and...I don't know if that's me, Happy. I'm not Iron Man."

"You're not Iron Man," Bucky said, so gently that they all had to look at him, even Peter with the tears in his eyes. "You're never going to be Iron Man. It's not like Cap, where it's this character that someone's forced to play. Tony made him. Tony is the only one capable of it, and even then, sometimes he wasn't. He was a mess. Did I ever tell you how he didn't want to take his company?"

Peter's brows furrowed in confusion. "What? Ho-ow -?'

"I couldn't find him for months after his parent's funeral. But caught him in the basement with mountain ranges of liquor bottles around him. He didn't want it, didn't like that Howard preened and prepped him to take it, didn't like that his mother died. He was ready to give it to Stane. I threw him out of the chair and convinced him to take it." Happy sharply looked up, having never heard that before. "And you know what? Years later, he thanked me for it. It made him grow. It brought him Pepper. It brought him his greatest creations. And he got to get out of the shadow of Howard. I was there for him when he needed me. When he got back stateside, I was at the press conference with him. I told him he did good, and I'll never forget the way he smiled at me. He pissed me off, but there's no doubting he was a son to me. He was family. As you are, too." Peter sniffled, and Bucky inhaled sharply before powering on. "He second-guessed so much of what he did. But he was sure that you had the potential to do great things. So here we are. Your friends are in trouble. You're pretty much alone. Important tech is in the wrong hands...What are you going to do?"

Peter stood up, shoulders squared and hands clenched into fists, an expression on his face that compared to many of Steve's own. "I'm gonna kick his ass."

"Uh, what about right now?" Happy broke the moment with the awkwardness in his voice. "Specifically, what are we gonna do? Because we've been hovering over a tulip field for the last fifteen minutes." Right, um...I can't call my friends because he's tracking their phones...uh, give me your phone?" He quickly moved toward Happy, hands outstretched.

"My - my cellphone?"

"No, your rotary," Steve flatly chimed, and, despite the situation, Bucky snorted.

"Okay. Here." Happy pulled the device from his pocket, handing it over. Peter snatched it up in his hands, backtracking a couple steps.

"What's your password?"

"Password."

Steve thought Peter was unbelievably close to rolling his eyes. "No, what _is_ your password?"

"Password. The word. Spell it out, password."

"You're the head of security and your password is 'password'?" Peter snapped, incredulously.

"Happy, you really do know better," Bucky reprimanded, softly.

Ashamed, he mumbled, "Yeah, I don't feel good about it either."

"I can't believe you have Instagram!" Peter exclaimed, but didn't lift his gaze from the screen.

"Happy!" Steve cried, reprimanding.

"Bucky has one!"

"I lost a bet!"

Volume from the phone caught their attention, an annoying voice saying, " _Ello, govern'a! Cup of tea for you? I'mma be in London soon!_ "

"They're in London!"

Bucky groaned out, "London?" as Happy quickly kicked into gear, rushing up to the front of the jet. Steve reached over to pat Bucky's chest. 

**| 2024 |**

Steve watched Bucky tug on the waistband of the black fishnets that came up past his bellybutton, and then adjusted his ripped skinny jeans. The corners of his three-by-five bisexual flag were tied around his two front belt loops, letting the fabric hang down over the backs of his thighs. His hair - part of which was in a braid, from his right temple - was pulled back into a messy bun on the back of his crown. Opting not to ruin his carefully crafted aesthetic by putting on the shirt Equitas Health had given them upon boarding the float, Bucky shoved the shirt partway into his front jeans pocket, and let the rest of the bright blue fabric hang down his leg.

Steve, instead, had traded out shirts. He tossed the pride shirt he'd come in down beside Bucky's can of Arizona lemonade and tea, and put on the pastel orange one he had been handed. He looked around at the preparing floats, at the overwhelming amount of rainbow items; umbrellas - one of which he and Bucky stood under, bathed in the colorful, dimmed light that seeped through the fabric - beachballs, streamers that shimmered under the sun.

Everything about Pride still seemed so weird to him. He still wasn't used to it.

He and Bucky hadn't been to a Pride event together, ever. Bucky had gone in twenty-fifteen after they were reunited the year before, they'd been war criminals before it could happen in sixteen, and they didn't have much of anything like that in Wakanda. Steve and Chrys had gone to one during the Gap, and it had still been great - but there had been something missing, and he couldn't get himself to forget that.

He didn't even realize Bucky was talking, too distracted by the amount of people, the chatter, the bright colors;

"- every year, I ask the guys with the abortion protests what the fuck abortion has to do with Pride, because a good part of us don't have to worry about getting pregnant." He took a quick swig from his Arizona can, before going on. "When Jess and I came here in fourteen, when we volunteered to be in the parade, there was this one guy walking around reading Bible passages - he had a mic and speaker on him, you know, very professional and dramatic - and he had a security guard following him around for an hour. He passed us maybe three times. The security guard never left him. Nat and Clint came with me in fifteen, and that's the year New York Pride counted me in as part of the event, like the famous drag queens that come out for this." He tipped the can against his lips again before setting it back down in the corner at the very top of the float, nestled behind their bags for the festival and Steve's old shirt.

Bucky suddenly pressed a kiss to Steve's cheek. "You look a little stressed. You've got that line between your brows." He raised his hand and pressed the pad of his index finger to it, and Steve forced his expression to smooth out.

"It's just...This was beyond our wildest dreams, when we were young."

He smiled, and, like his smile always did, Steve's stomach was set on fire and melted down into romantic mush. "Yeah. God - I remember Stonewall. Seeing the paper, it was just like a dream had come true. It literally happened overnight. It was one of the things that really paved the way to," he gestured at the preparations around them, "this. The very idea of Pride parades."

"Captain Barnes!" a man's voice boomed, and Bucky and Steve both pivoted. A man was coming across the float, holding a white megaphone their way. "This is for you. Feel free to take advantage of it."

Bucky grinned, mischievously, and turned his eyes back on Steve as the man quickly darted away. Hefting the megaphone and giving it a triumphant shake, he said, "I won't have to leave the float to yell at the baby doll killers."

Steve's eyes widened. " _What?_ "

Bucky's eyes were struck by joyous lightning. "Oh my god. I thought you knew - Steve, buckle up, we're going to soon enter the ride to redneck protesters that can't identify cells," he raised his free hand, palm up, then his left with the megaphone, "from plastic and a gallon of fake blood." He dropped his hands, lifting one shoulder in a shrug before leaning down for his can of tea. "And I'm not targeting all pro-lifers. I promise. Views are views, I have my own and I get how far up in our heads we can get. My views have changed as time went on, since Bianca was born. But the guys I see here are mostly trash, and use pictures of plastic baby dolls drenched in corn syrup to get a rise out of people. Or pictures of stillbirths, after twenty weeks, which isn't an actual abortion. They have no right to do that, when it is ultimately the woman's choice. The only time a man should be involved is if she asks for his input. It's her decision to let him help make one." He gestured off into the distance, where the floats were starting to drive into the city streets. "They have no right. No uterus, no direct role, equals no right."

Steve wasn't prepared for any of that. He let out a low whistle, and snatched the lemonade-tea from Bucky's loose hand. He knew of what had happened when Peggy told Bucky about their third pregnancy, could understand. Bucky had always been a bit radical, but it had been illegalized and he didn't want her to get hurt. And now he'd come far from then, even if the base line of his views were mostly the same.

Before he could bring the can to his lips, their float lurched underneath them; and Bucky grinned, his face covered in green, yellow, and blue light, pink spotting over one of his eyes.

_He always looked so beautiful._


	3. 2030

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey peeps! I've decided to shorten Part Four. Chapter four wasn't going to be much anyways, so I combined it with chapter three. So instead of Part Four having four chapters, it will have three.
> 
> Final chapter coming soon!

**| 2030 |**

Steve barely ever hesitated to drape himself over Bucky, his back or his shoulder, or just sticking to his side like they were fused. He came back home to find Bucky sitting at the couch with a worn paperback book in one hand, a scribbling green gel pen in the other. He glanced up when he walked in, the focused crease in his brow vanishing and being replaced with a slight ghost of a smile. He looked like he was practically born there, having not moved for a while - feet propped up on the coffee table, a large mug on the end table beside him, a giant fleece blanket tucked and folded and bunched so it was just right. His hoodie was one of Steve's, slightly too big and stained with oil paint.

The blond smiled back at him, and Bucky turned back to the book in his lap. Steve went into the bedroom, taking a quick, hot shower in the connecting master bath. He got dressed again in his own pajamas, hair damp and pushed back away from his forehead, tucked behind his ears.

He walked up to the couch, playfully smirking at Bucky. "Any room for me?"

"Always," Bucky responded, not looking up. He tilted over to the left, to pull part of the blanket out from underneath him. He held the corner up for Steve, who took it and lifted the blanket up even more so he could clamber underneath, curling up against Bucky's warm side. He may not feel it himself, but to Steve, he was always warm. But before Steve could put his head down on his shoulder, Bucky said, "Wait until your hair's dry."

Steve was used to this. Bucky hated getting wet, even the slightest bit, but especially if it was cold. He didn't protest, just lifted a hand and framed Bucky's chin with his fingers, leading him to turn his head so he could press a gentle kiss to his slightly chapped lips. Happy with where he had him, Steve dropped his hand to Bucky's abdomen, smoothing his palm over his side until his arm was around him.

Bucky gently smiled against his lips, leaning their foreheads together. When he spoke, it was a gentle murmur, voice deep and soothing as it always was. "How was group?"

"It was good," he said with a small, honest smile. He'd found a group therapy specifically for prisoners of war. Hearing what the other soldiers had to say, it helped ground the fact that he was not alone. He'd been alone for so long, and now he could find comfort in people with like experiences. As much as he understood why Bucky didn't like to talk about his experiences with Arnim Zola, respected that drawn line, getting it out of his head helped himself. It wasn't bottled up, it couldn't overflow. He took a risk, gently saying, "I wish you'd go."

Bucky turned his head away, eyes flicking back to the pages of his book, lips pursed into a tight line. Steve set his chin on his strong shoulder, casting his gaze down. He was a bit surprised to see that it was a poetry book. Neat rows of Bucky's scratchy handwriting bloomed from the printed lines in the book. As Steve quickly read through a few, he noticed that Bucky was responding to what had already been written.

"I didn't know you did creative writing," he noted, urging Bucky to say more about it, gently squeezing his left oblique muscle.

"Not enough to really talk about." He nodded down at the poetry book. "I think of this as an exercise, of sorts."

He was silent for a long moment. "If I asked, would you let me read something of yours?"

"Oh." Bucky sounded surprised, which turned it back on Steve. He sat up slightly, to be able to properly look at Bucky, just before the brunet said, "I don't think you'd want to. It's nothing great, it's just...It's shit, that's what it is."

Steve raised his hand again, and thumbed at Bucky's cheek until he turned his gaze back to his own, looking at him again. "Hey. I once thought that about my art. But guess what? My art was good enough to be life-ruining."

Bucky fixed him with a blank stare. "No, it was pornographic enough."

"Shut up. You're the one that always laid yourself out for me, it's like you were asking me to."

Bucky pointedly ignored the short exchange, turning to glower down at the book. With a small, hesitant voice, he asked, "You really want to read it?"

"I love reading everything you write." He reminded him, speaking lovingly against his cheek, brushing his fingers through the hair on the back of his neck, "When I have my bad days, I reread all those letters and notes you wrote me. It grounds me. Makes me remember exactly where I am, who I'm with, who you are deep inside. That I will always be safe with you."

Bucky's cheeks flushed red, but he spurred on. "Those are letters, they're completely different - that's not about skill, that's about pouring what's within you out for someone to see, even when I never thought you'd actually read them."

"So is this!" he insisted. "When I draw or paint something that isn't going to someone, like a sunset or a skyline, that isn't meant to be seen by anyone but myself. But it still comes from somewhere, because I wouldn't have drawn it if I didn't care about it. My sketchbook is practically my diary, as it was for you, too."

"Steve, I don't -"

"Bucky -"

"No, you don't get to do the dad voice to me! I'm a dad, I'm immune."

"Okay," Steve patted his thigh, but he wasn't giving up. "This is what we're going to do. A couple times a week, or at least once, you're going to let me read something. Doesn't matter how long it is, at least a long paragraph."

"Flash fiction?"

"You'd know better than I would - At least once a week, one person reads whatever you want them to. Once that's manageable, add another person. Go on, until you're comfortable with the general idea of people reading it. Immersion therapy."

Bucky took a moment to respond. "I guess I could do that. For you. But what if it doesn't work?"

"Then it doesn't work, and you get to sleep at night knowing you tried."

"Sounds like something Sam would say."

"Well, it's something I said, so deal with it."

He bit at the side of his lip, pushing it with the pressure. He then sighed, and started to get up. Steve let him go, as he walked out of the room with purpose - tentative, but purpose all the same. Steve just stayed where he was, curled under the warm blanket. Maybe Bucky wanted time, or was upset with him. So he didn't push.

But Bucky came back. Just like he always did. But instead of seventy years, it was within less than a minute, and this time he was carrying a shiny laptop instead of the shield. He carefully dropped back into his seat on the couch, pulled the blanket back over his lap and put his feet up on the coffee table. He opened the laptop, the brightness as low as it would go with a gentle blue light filter layered on. He opened the Google Chrome browser, opening his account apps.

"You write on Google Docs? But I've always seen you write on paper."

Bucky tapped the Google Docs icon. "First off; if you keep yacking, I'll close it and file for divorce."

Steve quickly made the motion of zipping his lips, and Bucky gave a little nod of approval before going on;

"Second; it's so much easier to edit and reread online. The letters are a completely different thing. Microsoft Word kept deleting, so I switched to Google Docs. Third; for many, many years, I've had no choice but to write on paper. Couldn't have helped it even if I wanted." He turned back to the screen, going through the docs. There were many, some with previews of short little blurbs, others shown with full first pages. He selected one with a mostly full first page, and pushed the laptop closer to Steve as it loaded. Steve happily took the offered laptop, as Bucky crossed his arms over his chest, the hoodie sleeves bunching up around his elbows. His leg started to bounce after a few moments, just barely, and Steve reached out to rest a comforting hand on his thigh, returning to the spot it had been in.

_**How** _ _**could he live with himself, he was always asked. How could he look at God's Earth, at His skies, and say 'no' to it all? He was a crazy man, they said. He gave up sunlight and clouds for fire and smoke, they said, paradise for damnation.** _

_**It was all for the smiles, he always replied. He did it for the lazy morning grin before a pillow was thrown into his face, for the sheepish lip-tug and rose-colored blush that spread over the expanse of smooth pale skin that he believed he could never get tired of. He admired the smug smirk that took charge when the battle of wits was clearly won, for the gleeful beam that could not be wiped away no matter how hard they kissed.** _

_**He was just living his life, he believed. Was it so wrong if he was sharing his lively soul with a man? What difference did it make, if the kisses tasted like cherry lipstick or sunshine?** _

_**But, at times, the jeers thrown at him grew to be unbearable, and he had no response. He would go home after he had whatever lunch his mother felt like having those holy Sunday afternoons; would close the door and silently announce his presence by leaning over the back of the couch and pulling his fingers through soft blond hair, pressing a gentle kiss to an inviting cheekbone. And when everything felt like it was not worth anything, he did his best to get a smile thrown his way; because if there was no smile, there was no light - and if there was no light, there was no life.** _

"I did not expect that," was the first thing Steve breathed, after a long moment of silence that could've been perceived as reading slow - which he sometimes did, after the brain damage he had gone through. "But I did, at the same time."

"Is that good or bad?" Bucky asked, a slight nervous hush to his voice.

"Bucky, this is _so good!_ " he exclaimed under his breath, voice lowered in complete awe - and by the lump of emotion that pressed in his throat. Bucky had written from what he knew, it stuck deep in Steve's heart because he knew it was a joining of their experiences. He let go of the edges of the laptop, reaching up and grabbing Bucky's face in both hands, pulling him into a hard, pride-filled kiss. When they parted, it was with a loud sound, and Steve didn't waste any time to ask - even as Bucky had opened his mouth to speak - "Can I read more?"

"Wait, wait, wait - you actually liked it?" he demanded, put off by Steve's enthusiasm.

"Yes, and I'd really love it if you let me read more. Even if it means not bothering you about it for another week or two."

Now it was Bucky's turn to be awed. "You liked it?" His voice cracked, eyes shining in the dim lighting.

"I _loved_ it," he reassured. "And I appreciate what the theme of it was." He let go of Bucky's face, taking hold of the laptop and holding it so they could both see the screen. Bucky shifted, to lay his right arm over Steve's broad shoulders. "That ending line's amazing, but I really love this part." He pointed to it, and read, "'What difference did it make, if the kisses tasted like cherry lipstick or sunshine?' It really shows contrast between the two, and sets up that ending line to make it even better."

"That's what I wanted it to," Bucky responded, engaging just the way Steve had hoped he would, even if it was still careful and not quite believing what was going on. "And for me, there was always this distinct difference. Peggy always had her lipstick. When I had met her, that's what I associated her with. But you always tasted like you. Natural, just like sunshine's natural."

"I figured that's where it had come from," he murmured, leaning even more into Bucky's side. He slipped down further, so he could rest his head on Bucky's chest. He asked again, "Is it okay if I read more?"

"Uh, yeah, sure - you like it, so, I guess." Bucky placed his fingers on the touch mousepad, clicking out of the doc he was on - titled All For The Smiles - and searching through his collection of work. As he looked to find the right one, something he was comfortable with sharing, Steve turned his head up to look at him.

"I love you," he whispered, "and that beautifully heartbreaking mind of yours."

Bucky dropped a kiss on the top of his head, selecting another piece. He murmured against his hair, "I love you, too, my light."

**| 2033 |**

"I feel like the Ghost scene is about to start," Bucky muttered, staring studiously down at his potter's wheel. His hands were coated with wet clay, stuck under his fingernails, his little pot between his palms.

Steve laughed, and he moved his hand wrong, his thumb pushing into the clay and fucking the whole thing up. He swore under his breath, earning a taken-aback glance from an older woman a few feet away. He smiled in apology, before taking his foot off the pedal and gathering the clay back up to start over.

They started the pottery class for the first time last week. It took place at a college, they paid their entry for the season; and the professor, a woman that usually dressed like a stereotypical hippie and was just so sweet, had been ecstatic to learn that THE Steve Rogers was taking part in her art class. They got the pinch pots they had made last week back today, to glaze them before they would take them home next week. Steve's awful pot had already been sent back, but as Bucky was waiting for one of the glaze colors, he had decided to get started on the next after the instructions were handed out.

And screw Bucky, for somehow being a natural at pottery.

Steve glared down at his pile of wet clay.

Seriously. Fuck him.

"Aw, Steve, come on," he cooed, as if he was able to tell what the blond was thinking about. "We've talked about this! I'm sorry I'm better at pottery than you!"

"I'm known for my art, Buck!" he shot back. He wasn't truly mad, just a bit miffed. He had been excited for this class, only to suck at it while Bucky, who had been hesitant, was succeeding.

Good for Bucky. But screw him. Steve would put paint on his nose later, that'll teach him.

A high schooler came up to them, to the point and nervous as she held the big bottle of forest green and yellow glaze out to Bucky. He thanked her with a warm, kind smile, then added, "Could you just set it down? Hands." He held his up, to show off the second skin of clay. She smiled back and set it down beside his pot on the little worktable in front of the wheel, and then returned to her station.

"I'm gonna wash up," he murmured to Steve as he got to his feet, immediately heading over to the deep industrial sink at the wall.

Now that his hunk of clay had dried, Steve let it fall back into the center of the wheel. He put his foot back on the pedal, tipping it down a little to get a slow rotation, making sure the clay would stay and was perfectly in the center. He focused on the soft alternate music playing from the overhead speakers, instead of the chatter or the professor walking around and checking in on everyone. He held down on the pedal a little more, the wheel turning faster, and cradled his clay in the circle of his hands to try and get a smooth outside. Then, careful as he could be, he pushed his thumbs into the center. He took it down far enough so that bottom wasn't too thick or two thin, then slowly began to stretch it.

His goal? A mug.

Bucky sat back down, hands covered in the dry residue of the clay, but clean enough to properly handle the glaze and his pinch pot. Steve ignored him, focused entirely on not messing up again. Forcing his shoulders and torso to relax, he stretched the clay up a little, so the hopefully-mug would be able to hold more.

Just last night, Bucky had told him after touching a sweet kiss to his nose, "There are so many types of art. Just because you're a master of one or a couple doesn't mean you have to be good at all."

But Steve didn't have much. He had been in a long art block, unable to sketch or paint properly. He's been going on missions, wearing the gear that Queen Shuri had made him so many years ago. Helped train the rookies in hand to hand, which Billy was absolutely hopeless at but clearly trying, even when he accidentally blasted Steve or Bucky back into the wall of the training gym, in the rebuilt and improved Avengers Compound. Carol showed up randomly and they went out for a fun night, last time having ended up at a loud bar with a mechanical bull. The pottery class gave him something else to focus on, what he hoped could help with his art block. But it was no use, and it just bummed him out. But they had paid for the full six weeks, and he wasn't going to just drop out. This was something he and Bucky were able to do together, while adding more personal items into their home (as if they needed it, really, but Bucky was sentimental even if he refused to admit it.)

"Your face is cute," Bucky leaned over to whisper. Steve pulled his hands from his clay so he could look at him, and smiled back when he saw the grin on his husband's face.

"Really? I beg to differ, yours is cuter." He gave a light hum, and quietly added, so only Bucky was able to hear, "And I have plans for it later on."

Bucky's brows turned up in interest. "D'ya mind filling me in on these plans of yours?"

"Nope." He popped the P, and turned back to his clay. Now, he just had to figure out what color paint would bother Bucky the most.

**| 2034 |**

The morning Bucky's autobiography released in bookstores, officially published for the world to see, the man was a complete wreck.

The process of writing it had worn on them all. So many days had Steve and Bucky spent pouring through the letters and polaroids that had been stuffed into the old leather-bound sketchbook, deciding which ones should be included in the book, what polaroids - if any - should be scanned into the pages. Restless nights that Bucky spent staring at the Google Document, hands fastened in his hair or tears in his eyes, early mornings that were not yet mornings where he was torn from vivid nightmares by either his own screams or Steve's own doing.

Steve did his best to support him. Made sure that he didn't fade away, that he ate and drank - even if it was just coffee or hot chocolate, it was better than nothing. He sat beside him whether he was needed or wanted, provided support for him even if it wasn't asked. He helped Bucky organize the bones of the story the exact way he wanted, talked it out with him so all ideas and thoughts were laid out, and could be assembled. A few of them were so long that Bucky felt the need to split the bookk into parts, instead of only chapters. Each with their own beautiful name, their own purpose, their individual meanings to him.

It ended up starting with a long prologue, more so related to an epigraph. A summary, in less than what the book totaled. It was a letter to Steve, that brought the man in mind to built-up tears every time he read it.

_**I often feel like I'm drowning.** _

_**I know what it feels like - I was in and out of consciousness, awake for hours or days, after I crashed the plane that I had once been forced to help build. Sometimes the suffocation doesn't quite go away. Like there's this giant weight sitting on my chest, just like my nephew used to when we'd babysit for Becca.** _

_**Maybe there's a reason that my life runs like blood; gushing tendrils from my shredded wrists, ruby chains that pull and pull until my bones pop and scream. Until I wished that I'd bring myself to do it, instead of imagining where the blood would fall, how large the droplets would be and how long they'd stain.** _

_**I am. I just am; A historical figure, feet rooted in concrete. A man that has been through great pain, screaming as a blade carved and reopened slashes on the soles of my feet, unable to know where the love came and went in my marriage with one of the strongest people I've ever had the honor of meeting. I am fused to my other half, my partner in crime, that I've willingly or inadvertently given up everything for. I am a father, without his first born and watching his daughters age until one day, I won't have children. A figurehead that hates the weight on his shoulders, that the scandal of the century was based around something I'd worked so hard to bury from the world.** _

_**Having you forced into my life again after so long, so much, was like feeling you slip from my fingertips all over again.** _

_**It's been so long. I forgot what loving you felt like - consciously, out from behind the storm clouds, without a dulling from separation. All these years, I kept shoving it down, until it was packed as tightly as it could in the very back of my head. I couldn't stand the pain that came with the very thought of you, so I kept it to a minimum. That may seem weak, but I can't convince myself to care - even though I can't specifically remember why I wouldn't want to think about that little strand of hair that falls over your forehead when you sleep. Because, in this moment, it's all I can think about, all I can see beyond this page.** _

_**We live in a cruel, vicious world. As much hurt as it gave me, it also gave me you. My siblings, nieces and nephews. Peggy, the Howlies. My beautiful children, grandchildren, on and on. Clint and Natasha, Tony and Pepper. Once upon a time, it felt like I lost everything, and I rebuilt my life up from the snowy mountain caps of the Alps. Then I lost what I'd desperately built, until my palms were cracked and bleeding. But I did it again, I had to. And it led me back to you. Despite the odds, every horrible thing that was thrown our way year after long year. I fought every grueling nightmare and every person that hated that I loved you first, when you were just Steve and always got charcoal on my cheeks; walked through every cracked rib and bullet wound; moved on and back and on and back again; just to get back to you.** _

Following the epigraph, the autobiography began with some details about Bucky's childhood and young adulthood, his abusive father and the pure love his mother had for he and his siblings and Steve, how Sarah loved him unconditionally even though he wasn't her own. There was Steve, in all his thin and sick glory, but Bucky never failed to make him sound stronger and better than the real man wanted to take credit for. Bucky covered the unadulterated truth of the Depression, the way America saw the war, the horrors minorities faced.

Then came the war. Part two began with an ease into the scene, with basic training and meeting the famous Timothy Dugan, the rigorous sniper training and his quick promotion to Sergeant Barnes, coming back to Brooklyn for one more night before shipping off with what came to be his best friend the very next morning. Bucky recounted his first time in the field with a gutting narration, that had brought tears to Sam's eyes when he first read it. Bucky had lost his innocence ages ago, but the way the war began to crush his soul wasn't at all easy to ignore. It practically bruised the pages.

Bucky wasn't one for drafts, having different versions of the same exact writing. When he edited, it was only making sure everything was worded correctly - because the story would never change. When he wrote a scene, Steve read it, they talked about it, fleshed it out until it was completely skinned and bare and they both knew it was as good as it could get. Even though Steve did want to read it, the passages tore him apart. Bucky had this unique way of bringing people to tears, ripping their hearts from their chests with the words that ran in his blood. And Steve? He thanked god that Bucky gave him time between each one, because if he had to read multiple at once or within just a day or two of each other, he'd fall apart. The one thing he refused to read was Azzano. Part three was too close to home, too close to what kept himself up at night. Bucky went through such a similar hell as Steve had, he just couldn't bring himself to. And Bucky didn't force him, just kissed him and asked if he would at least stay with him while he wrote it.

He helped with and read part four, because he was such a big part of it. The adventures and friendship of the Howling Commandos, the way they had become family, brothers in everything but blood. They carefully chose which letters would be included, future writings of Bucky's that spoke about the Alps, the fall, the scream that Steve had unleashed. The greyscale Bucky created after the supposed death was heartbreaking to Steve, and he had closed the laptop to pull Bucky in his arms, leave a trail of kisses over his skin and bring them both to a tear-filled peak of pleasure. He had finished up reading the next morning, when Bucky was still naked, having fallen asleep with cloudy fluid dried on his stomach and the backs of his thighs.

Part five began with the sight of Peggy's signature red lips, the way they had held each other after Bucky had woken up and been debriefed. It showed the beginning bud of their relationship, the way they had just stumbled across their first kiss like a jagged root sticking out of a worn forest path. But the forest would come years later, Steve knew and dreaded. Bucky had loved Peggy, there was no doubt about it. He had made that much clear. But he wrote of how they fell apart, like old paint chipping off the wall until the gap was suddenly too big to fix. How he felt like an imposter in his own bed, in his own job - that, at the time, the only thing that felt truly right was being a father to the most beautiful boy in the world, then his adored oldest daughter, and finally the last child; featuring a controversial scene that Bucky regretted, the manipulation that he hadn't meant to do, the way he had tried to fix it but Peggy held strong. And though he never connected with that girl until her adult years, he loved her all the same. That he loved another boy like his own son, had attended graduations and events in another man's place.

Part six brought an influx of letters and polaroids. It began with the big bang of divorce, of the sketchbook, of the truth of Bucky's heart, the way his kids had suddenly learned why they were never left in a room alone with their grandfather. No matter how much freedom he suddenly had, the loneliness was crushing. He wrote, he saw all the sights to see; he was smothered and sliced and shot by figures in white robes and torn down by uncensored fear, the recount of it making Steve's skin itch and sting in uncontrolled sympathy and horror. The cuts hadn't even healed into scars, where they had tried to castrate him. It was just smooth skin that Steve worshipped, just like every other part of Bucky because it was _Bucky._

S.H.I.E.L.D. was assigned part seven. Cutting his palms lifting debris after 9/11, suddenly having a real job again, holding his son as the boy cried over his deceased love. Sweltering heat, a new life-long friend and almost love, that had felt wrong when it had been attempted. Natasha showed her face, all green eyes and long red hair. How much he missed her be evident in what he wrote, the words laced with reminisce and grief, a wistful lilt to certain phrases.

Part eight was splattered in blood. Hydra created a dark cloud of regret and doubt, of unforgiving grief. The Winter Soldier made his appearance, wreaking havoc in DC, until the mask came off and fell from Bucky's fingers to the asphalt. That was where it ended, where Bucky's soul scrabbled against his heartstrings to keep from drowning.

When Bucky failed to get out of bed the morning of, Steve didn't leave his side. He folded his arms around him, and Bucky pressed his face into his chest. "I'm terrified," he came to brokenly murmur, muffled by the sweatshirt and muscle.

"You're so strong," Steve countered, without any hesitation. "The fact that you did this says so much about you - especially how far you've come. You're so strong, despite everything you wrote about, and I'm so, so proud."

"I haven't even read the reviews," he protested, stuck in his mindset, "that were done _last week_."

"I have," Steve said, carefully, carding his fingers through Bucky's messy, restless bed head. When he didn't say anything, he went on, "The critics have been raving. That this piece was created to be disturbing, enlightening, heartbreaking. That it's a mix of beauty and romantic language with tragic, violent horror. You have a way with words, baby, and it's being noticed by more than just me and Sam. Just like it should be."

Bucky sighed into the center of his chest, face pressed between his pecs. "I can't believe I published all that shit."

Steve dropped a kiss down on the top of his head, cleaning his neck down to be able to do so. "Buck. Baby. You've been quiet for so long. Your voice deserves to be heard. You wrote about things that were yours to tell, that the media has taken and twisted. You wrote about the KKK attack, the divorce, being the Nomad...You lived all of it. You kept your chin up. It's yours. Only yours."

<|>

Bucky's hand was light against the top of Steve's thigh, gently rubbing up and down over the fabric of the pajama pants. An understanding was heavy between them, in general and when the darkness clouded their brains - the cold was not a welcomed member of their house. Steve trained his senses on the thrum of the heater, a white noise that would make the world seem too quiet when it stopped.

Curled up in a blanket, Steve rested against Bucky's chest, partially trained on the familiar, constant pound of his heartbeat. When he had woken up, he hadn't been himself, had grabbed Bucky hard enough to make him yell and searched for his pulse, only relaxing when he found that it was strong and consistent, that Bucky hadn't bled out in snowy woods from decades ago.

The nightmare routine was simple. They each had their own special preferences, that the other knew whenever the time came. Bucky got Steve's favorite blanket and immediately folded it around him, kissed his forehead, and gently guided him out to the dining room, so he would stay in sight as he heated up two grilled cheese sandwiches and shook up a truly disgusting strawberry protein drink. When it was all ready, he took it out to the kitchen with Steve trailing like a little fleece-wrapped ghost behind him, and they curled up on the couch to watch an animated movie. Tonight it had been How To Train Your Dragon, as Steve studiously revamped his calorie and protein intakes and tried to calm down.

They didn't talk much, during times like this. Sometimes Steve's head would hurt so badly that he could only desperately sob into the dip between Bucky's pecs, the light and sound sensitivities rearing their ugly, pointy heads. And through it all, even the calmer scenes where Steve just needed to be near his partner, Bucky would stroke his hair and pepper little kisses along his head - on top of his hair, his temples, his forehead.

Steve stretched his right leg, fully extending it over Bucky's lap, pointing his foot until his ankle popped and his thigh stretched underneath Bucky's gentle hand. He pushed the tip of his nose into the collar of Bucky's too-big sweater, the blue fabric designed to be ugly-christmas style but proudly declared 'Meowzel Tov.'

"Do you want another movie, baby?" Bucky asked, below even a whisper, just a light exhale that he knew wouldn't risk being a pain in the head. It caught Steve's attention, making him notice that the movie had completely finished, the end credits coming to a close.

"If I could convince you to sing to me instead...?"

Bucky scoffed, and his fingers lingered at Steve's hip. "Baby, it's like you're trying to embarrass me."

"You can't embarrass yourself in front of me anymore. I watched you hit your head on a cabinet and spill the only can of beans we had down the front of your shirt." Everyone thought Bucky was full of such charm and gusto that it oozed from his pores, but little ol' Steve got to see what a stupid klutz he occasionally turned out to be.

"Don't remind me," Bucky practically ordered, gently squeezing his hip before dragging his palm down the side of his thigh, fingertips curling underneath. The entire show made Steve melt, his crossed arms tugging the blanket further over his broad shoulders. Obviously having felt it, the brunet went on to drawl, "Aw, that's it. My perfect Stevie, so sweet for me. So _good._ "

The emphasis placed on the praise didn't go unnoticed. Never did. Hadn't since Steve admitted, years ago, that association sometimes helped him. Little assurances that he wasn't fucking up, that he wasn't just a blood-soaked statue, that he wasn't stone-cold, kept the self-doubt and esteem issues tampered. Stuck a cork in the bottle holding the storm, kept it from wreaking havoc in Steve's fragile skull. Bucky truly meant everything he told him, but went the slightest step further, smattering him with kisses and lifting him up in strong hugs even when the situation barely called for it, and Steve just loved him for it.

He loved Bucky more than he had ever loved anything.

When Bucky told him he wasn't evil, or the monster lurking under the bed, Steve usually believed him. If he didn't...well, it just meant he was too far gone and they had to wait for him to come back.

"What movie won't make me cry like a little baby?" he came to ask. The second How To Train Your Dragon movie made him tear up every time. He loved Finding Nemo, and Up, but they just got to him, lodged between his ribs and poked at his heart.

Bucky hummed, deep in thought. There was a comfortable silence, where Steve inhaled the traces of the cologne on Bucky's collar as he waited. He loved it when the vanilla and cedar scent filled his senses, creating soft, content clouds in his brain and making him feel like he could float on them.

"Does Lady and the Tramp?"

"Not really. Play the live action. It sucks."

He let out a cross between a scoff and a laugh, gently leading Steve's legs to fold up so he could get off the couch. Steve didn't try to pull him back, head resting against the back couch cushion as he watched Bucky like a lazy, curious cat. But he appreciated the bending over much more.

He was only human, right? Well, a bit more. But essentially.

The DVDs were traded out, the previous put back into place in the selection, and Bucky came back to the couch. He settled back into the corner, and, earning a little help from the blond, pulled Steve half on top of him and wrapped his arms around his abdomen.

They didn't get back to sleep. On nights like these, they often didn't, and they were never upset about that. Bucky made breakfast, frying up smoked sausage links and scrambled eggs _(Bucky made better eggs, Steve always took a step back when they were in question)_ , the meal rounded out with yet another protein shake, this time filling two glasses instead of one. They ate the meal at the table instead of the couch, the few words they traded leaving sunny smiles in their wake, that lived up until the shower they then went upstairs to share. Steve gripped Bucky's shoulder and side with white knuckles, nails pressing into his skin.

Yet another thing that they were both unfairly familiar with.

Bucky gently spoke to him, doing what he could to keep Steve from staring straight through him. The words didn't quite reach his ears, as if there were rods of ice stuck through them, but the base sound of that deep, gravelly voice was enough, as Bucky's soapy hands did their job, getting them in and out.

The days they had to themselves - no missions, no plans, no one came to visit - were often quiet. Sometimes they played Jenga and yelled at each other from across the table, or swallowed down passionate moans as Bucky's hips pushed and pushed and pushed - but today? Steve didn't need much. He was going to have to go downstairs and run on the treadmill for a little while, but that could wait.

So they watched more movies, Bucky's hand never quitting from carding his fingers through Steve's soft honey-colored hair.

Home hadn't had a definition in so, so long. Bucky had something, once upon a time. But now they had this, which was so much better than anything either of them had experienced.

When their doorbell chimed around two, Steve groaned and let his head fall limp against Bucky's chest, as the brunet turned his attention toward it. Steve grumbled, "No, you don't."

"Baby, at least let me go see who it is we're ignoring," Bucky tried to convince, but Steve held on tighter. It may have been childish, but he wasn't sure how he'd handle having someone around, even if it was someone he cherished and loved. But the very idea of Bucky opening that wooden front door had the center of Steve's chest pulling open, stretching the skin and bones so any and all anxiety could fester there, making it a black hole.

Bucky ran his palm over Steve's hair and down the back of his neck, coming to a stop between his shoulder blades. He dropped a kiss on the top of his head, and gently murmured, "No one's here to hurt you, you know. I'll never let another bad thing happen to you."

Steve didn't lift up his head, but he turned it along the cheek that was smushed to Bucky's chest, until he tipped it so his chin rested there instead. His husband took the opportunity to kiss his forehead, so sweet that Steve let out a shaky breath and finally spoke. "I just don't want to see anyone. It's awful, that could be Chrys or Bee, but I can't do it, and I don't want to go upstairs and be alone -" The knock on the door started again, more insistent, and Steve abruptly broke off. He just wanted Bucky. Wanted to maintain their soft day, just the two of them, until he tried to go to sleep again tonight.

"How about..." Bucky started, slowly. Steve gently huffed, but he knew Bucky understood. Personally. "How about I go see who it is? If they can't wait another day or call, then I send them off."

Steve couldn't logically fight with that. So, he pushed himself up and pulled his blanket securely around him, folding up his legs in the way that Sam just couldn't figure out how he did it, and pulling the blanket over his legs as well. He listened to Bucky answer the door, a sudden worried tone in his voice, and then the response that Peter Parker gave him that just sounded so, so desperate.

They couldn't just ignore him. Steve knew that, even before Bucky wearily told him to come in. The door thumped shut and the lock clicked into place, and Peter came through into the living room. Steve glanced over his shoulder and the back of the couch, taking in the missed brown curls and the dark circles under his eyes.

Bucky was close behind, and leaned over the back of the couch as Peter took a seat in the overstuffed armchair, looping his arms around Steve from above and once again kissing his head, this time the crown. Peter was family, even if he was much younger than them, and Steve didn't worry about perspective as he turned his shoulder into the couch and hid his face in Bucky's arm, taking what was being offered to him.

"What's going on, bub?" Bucky asked. Steve's ears hadn't tricked him, the concern in his voice was layered thick. Steve felt it, too, even if he wasn't exactly an active participant.

"Okay," Peter said, wringing his fingers together, sounding like he was doing what he could to keep himself under control. "Um...So MJ wants kids, right? And I just - I'm not so sure. Powers, work, whatever. And, uh," he sniffled, and raised one hand to scratch at the side of his nose. "We had a really big fight. I slept on the couch. She threw bread at me this morning - which is so stupid, but I guess it was her way if saying I'm an idiot sandwich?" He scoffed, dropping his head into his hands. When he spoke it was muffled, but so so broken, "I don't know what to think, or-or do." He pushed his fingers back, tugging at the strands of his hair until his entwined fingers came to rest on the nape of his neck. "I don't know if I'm overreacting. She thinks I am. But a kid with super strength and senses isn't going to mix well. And it could possibly stick to shit and climb up the walls, the ceiling - it could get so hurt, and that'd be my fault!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Bucky interrupted, waving a hand to make him stop talking. "First of all; your fears are incredibly valid. Second; in no way, shape, or form would that ever be your fault. If you didn't put the baby on the ceiling, it's not your fault." Despite himself, Steve let out a soft snort, and Peter made a weak sound that was somewhere between humored and miserable.

"You're enhanced and you had kids," he pointed out, voice rough. "How did you do it?"

"Well..." Bucky huffed, and slumped so his chin rested on top of Steve's head. "When Peg's told me she was pregnant with Grant -" Steve went rigid in his spot, and Bucky ran a comforting hand down his back as he went on. "- I freaked the hell out on her. I had to go talk to my mom, because I wasn't able to process it all myself.

"But I was so happy, too. It was so weird how the stress and love combined, but that's what happened. I came back to Peg, told her my worries. She laughed at me when I said, 'what if he tears himself out of your womb like a baby chicken?'" Peter's eyes widened with horror, the realization dawning on him, and Bucky immediately backed up. "Fuck - I was going for funny!"

"That's not funny!" Peter shouted back, and Steve shrunk back into the couch, wincing. The young man whispered, suddenly able to read the scene, "Oh - I'm sorry, Steve."

"It's okay," he managed to say from behind his teeth, as Bucky pushed his fingers through his hair.

"Keep your voice down," Bucky gently instructed Peter. "We've had a rough night. Anyways...I told her my worries, but I also told her I'd love that baby with everything I had in me, and that she never had to worry about me leaving her or our children. We were both a bit taken off, after all we were in uncharted waters. But we made it work. Howard even helped a little, made a reinforced crib just in case."

"And the enhancements?" he asked, needing to know more. "How were they handled?"

"When they were fresh newborns, they were just normal babies? Strength-wise. Chrys was really sensitive to scents, Grant immediately cried for me when I opened the apartment door, and Bee was just so smart. She soaked everything up, in a way that wasn't natural? But," he scraped his nails over Steve's scalp, earning a little fidget, "as they got older, it got more apparent. The strength, the speed, the enhanced senses. I did what I could for them when they were little, worked with them on how to keep control of the senses so you don't hear every single heartbeat or smell everything along the block on both sides, how to handle the extra strength. I taught them how to protect themselves, which was a good outlet, especially for Grant. He decided to use his enhancements for S.H.I.E.L.D., while Chrys only used them whenever they were needed. When the drawings came out, she and Bee were followed and she had to fight her way out. And Bee, she just doesn't use them. The memory is helpful, she can't control that, but she just goes about her life as normal. And I don't blame her, after all the hurt I've caused her."

Steve raised his head. "Buck -"

He was gently hushed, and he grumbled as he put his head back down, rolling his eyes at Peter, who let out a soft chuckle. "You basically just have to do what you can for them. Help guide them. No one knows what's going to happen, so might as well prepare."

Peter nodded, pursing his lips before looking down at his fidgeting hands. "What if MJ decides it's too much?"

"Then that's what she decides," Bucky said, so simply and blunt that Steve had to look back up at him. The situation wasn't exactly what Peter was referring to, but Bucky had been left behind when things got hard. "And you're gonna love that kid and give them _everything_ you've got."

**| 2038** **|**

Late. How the hell could they be late?

The elevators opened, and Steve and Bucky immediately raced out into the hall. They passed a painted stork on the wall, flowers surrounding it, and Bucky skidded to a stop in front of the service desk. "Hi, we're here for -"

"Room H13," the nurse didn't even let him finish his sentence. Steve inclined his chin, grabbed Bucky's hand, and they started down the hall. Steve found the room first, and grabbed Bucky's wrist to tug him toward it. He knocked on the door before opening it and sticking his head in, then opening it wider for then to walk inside.

MJ looked up from the blue bundle in her arms, wrapped up in a robe and underneath a blanket. Peter was beside her on the little sliver left on the hospital bed, arm over her shoulders and the other also cradling the baby, running the pad of his thumb along his cheek. Chrys and May sat on the open side of the bed, Chrys's blue eyes filled with warm honey as she looked at the baby.

"Did the mission go okay?" Peter asked, looking away from the newborn.

Bucky groaned, and Steve patted at his shoulder. They had been called two days ago while on a mission in Norway, but hadn't been able to leave until the day after. Unfortunately, it landed them in the hospital two days after MJ gave birth, and Bucky was bummed that he missed the birth of yet another grandbaby.

"It went alright," Steve answered, as Bucky was transfixed on the baby in question. The brunet had a seemingly silent communication with MJ, getting her to transfer the baby to his arms as Steve sat down in one of the guest chairs, adding to the casual debrief, "Thor and Hilde say hi."

Peter smiled, but didn't respond. He instead looked at Bucky expertly holding his son, little smiles on both of their faces. A calm silence enveloped them, watching Bucky hold the newborn for a few minutes, before he carefully set the boy back in MJ's arms.

After the talk they had had years ago, and then more as time went on, Peter finally came to the point where he knew he wanted this. That whatever happened was just going to happen, and they would figure it out as time went on. Nine months ago, he tackled Bucky to the floor, celebrating that his wife was pregnant. As the months wore on, Peter miraculously kept swinging between nerves and pure excitement, in such a way that Steve wasn't sure how he was still alive - especially after The Incident TM, where he accidentally wrecked a baby supply store by running into everything, frazzled beyond repair.

"Do you guys have a name yet?" Bucky asked as he stepped back, gaze on the couple. Steve had been lectured about the Jewish tradition of not officially naming a baby before they were born, and he hadn't asked a thing about it since. But now, the crime scene tape had seemed to disappear, and he sat up in interest.

MJ leaned her head against Peter's shoulder, hair array and wild, haphazardly tied back in a way that just screamed 'done by Peter Parker.' The look she had tossed up to him seemed to be permission, because Peter answered, voice the most sure and soft as Steve had ever heard from him, "This is Miles."


	4. 2040

**| 2041 |**

Now _this_ was a blast from the past.

Steve scooped six year old Miles up in his arms, the two of them shouting as Steve spun around. He came to a slow stop, and then spun around the other way. He had never been able to do this with James, Becca and Will's first born. Hadn't even babysat since before he was signed up for Project Rebirth.

He dipped Miles back, holding onto his calf and keeping his tiny legs close to his chest as he got his head close to the floor.

"Steve," Bucky said behind him, and the blond whirled around as he brought Miles back fully into his arms. "You're gonna have to be the one to calm him down. I'm not going near that."

He laughed, and set Miles down on the floor. He immediately raced over to Bucky, jumping up at him. The older man let out a little grunt, but hoisted him up into his arms to plant a purposefully wet kiss against the apple of his cheek. "I'll just put on The Incredibles and he'll conk right out."

"You bet your lucky stars it works," Bucky threatened with a little grin, Miles wriggling in his chest to be set down. Bucky turned his attention down to him, and asked in his Dad Voice, "What do you think you're doing?"

The boy froze.

"Mi?"

"I want down," he responded.

"Then you just ask." He kissed his forehead and set him back on his feet. Patting his back, he suggested, "Go play with some of your toys, yeah?"

"Candy Land?"

Bucky smiled, and Steve could see the sadness hanging behind it. "After you eat. I promise."

"Cross your heart," Miles demanded. Backing away, Bucky immediately traced a little X over his left pectoral, and then turned to head back to the kitchen. Miles turned back on Steve, and ran directly up to him to grab at his hand and try to drag him. Steve moved slow, but let him.

"What's the rush, little guy?"

"Colors!" he exclaimed, letting Steve go to rush over to his backpack. He came back with a coloring book

"And what are we using to color?"

Looking over the top edge of the coloring book, he sweetly asked, "The nice pencils?"

He rolled his eyes, though a wide grin was on his face. He pulled open the drawer of on of the end tables and pulled out the tin of prismacolor colored pencils. He sat down cross-legged beside the low coffee table, and Miles sat on one of his legs so he was able to properly reach the top, where he set the coloring book and opened it to select a picture for them to color in. As Steve waited, he popped open the tin, and pulled the little trash bin over so he could sharpen the ones that needed it. This was the small set he let the little boy use.

They were halfway through their second picture, of the original Disney princesses and princess, when Bucky called out that dinner was ready. Miles, fast as could be, was already at the table by the time Steve got to his feet. The blond came in to see his a plastic plate with a piece of seared chicken, cottage cheese, and homemade french fries. Then he looked into the kitchen, and Bucky held a regular plate out to him.

"I'll make up his, but I'm not making up yours."

Steve grinned. "I wouldn't expect anything more." He pecked Bucky's lips, making the both of them share loving smiles as the young boy groaned and fake-gagged at the table.

They got their plates ready and all ate together. After, while Steve washed the dishes - since Bucky cooked - Bucky took Miles back out to the living room, getting him set up with his coloring book and a movie. Steve was finishing up, placing the last dish in the strainer and drying his hands, when Bucky came in.

"He's good?" Steve asked, rubbing the towel over his left palm one last time before folding it back over the cabinet beneath the sink.

"Yeah. I'm heading back to him in a few, I just...wanted to talk to you for a minute. While I'm up for it."

His brows furrowed, forming that wrinkle between his brows. As Bucky always did, he reached up and ran the pad of his finger over it, so soothe Steve into relaxing.

"What if there's only one Captain America?"

Under Bucky's hand, the furrow appeared again, lips parting to speak. But he didn't have any words other than, "Okay?" The two of them ran some missions, as supervisors, but they usually just trained as senior, experienced members.

Head bowed, Bucky pursed his lips for a moment, before letting them ease from the tight line. He whispered, "I never wanted to be Cap, you know? Didn't even want to fight in the war. I've just never gotten out of it. I'd like to. World only needs on Cap, they love you, so...gonna let them have you."

Steve stepped forward, looping his arms around Bucky's waist. He threaded his fingers together behind him, and rested his hands against the small of his back, pulling him close. He knew how much Bucky had always hated the job, the pressure, the weight. "You don't have to do anything you don't want. You wanna put down the gauntlets, you're free to."

Gently shaking his head, he added, "I don't want to train, either. Stevie, I just wanna write. That's all I've wanted to do for a while. I want to write a fiction series, I've been working on the base, and I'm ready to dive into it. I want to be able to focus on it."

He nodded his head, not at all surprised. This was such a breakthrough for Bucky, in all honesty, finally doing something one hundred percent for himself. "Whatever you want, honey. Seriously." He leaned in to kiss him, and Bucky pressed into it, bringing his hands up to squeeze Steve's shoulders. He pulled away and shifted his shoulders, brushing Bucky's hands away. "C'mon. You can squeeze me later."

His dark brown quirked. "Is that a promise?"

"Oh, you bet." Steve winked, and spun Bucky around by the belt loops to herd him back out to the living room.

**| 2042 |**

The plans were simple. Cremation, a ceremonial scatter over Peggy's grave, so mother and daughter could be together yet again.

Bucky and Bianca each had an arm around each other, the young woman wearing gloves underneath the sleeves of her trench coat. May had her arm looped around Bucky's, head leaned on his shoulder, Peter standing under her other arm with his own looped tightly around his abdomen. On the other side of the grave, Steve and Henry stood closely side by side, Steve with his hands shoved in the pockets of his coat and the twice widowed husband cradling a small urn in his wrinkled hands, the urn no bigger than the length from the hell to fingertips. May's older brother, Dylan, stood on Henry's other side, gripping his wife's hand with white knuckles. Even Grant's kids had made the trip, Greg - who looked so much like Grant Barnes, even in old age, that it hurt - Sarah, and Rich.

Traveling to London had been such a huge commute, that MJ and Miles had stayed at home, only attending the funeral service at the funeral home they had used for Winifred Barnes, her children, and in-laws. Parts of the extended family weren't able to make the trip, but they all came to the service, and then the luncheon afterward that Steve and Bucky hosted, as they owned the main house in the family.

"Alright," Bee started, voice choked. "We know the drill." She kneeled down and scooped up the canvas bag, hooking one arm through it to rifle through. Bucky reached over and pulled the hanging side up and open, to give her an easier time. She put the biodegradable scatter box under her arm, held between her bicep and side. She handed Bucky a bottle of perfume, that he frowned at before holding it close to his chest. "Hen, you have the song?"

"Yea-h." He switched the urn to one hand, keeping it close to his body, as he reached into the pocket of his trousers for the little iPod. "Gotta let it boot," he told them, holding down on the power button.

Steve sighed, looking down at Peggy's grave and the three bouquets of flowers. The first was from May, Dylan, and Peter, for Chrys, made up of dark pink chrysanthemums, babies breath, light pink forget-me-nots, and pink-purple lilies. The second was from Bucky and Bee, another for Chrys, light purple and orange chrysanthemums, red poppies, yellow daisies, and blue bellflowers. A full rainbow - a being of bright color, as Chrys was.

The final bouquet was from Steve, for Peggy. Orange blossoms, babies breath, and, her favorite - that he somehow remembered from his youth - mini sunflowers. He had only been to Peggy's grave a few times; once at the funeral, and then another time over the five years. When he saw her during his time travel to the eighties, he left as fast as he could, to stave off any more of a clash. But surprising Bucky with seeing his son again was something he was more than happy to do. The apology he was never able to properly give him.

He raised his attention from the gravestone, staring at the old imprints of letters and the gorgeous bouquets, when a pop song started playing and Peter laughed. Lady Gaga's _Poker Face_ flowed from the speakers of the iPod, and Peter's grief-ridden hysterical giggles overtook everyone's little by little.

Bee got ahold of herself, where she had straightened up back into Bucky's one-armed embrace, still holding the canvas bag. "So that's the favorite song. I just know that's a joke -"

"The Great Barnes Family Poker Face," Bucky mused, and Steve frowned at the great strain in his voice. He knew Bucky was barely keeping it together. When they had gotten the news, he disappeared for almost two days. Steve still didn't know where he had gone, just knew that his knuckles were bruised and bloody, had probably been broken but healed by the time he had gotten home.

Bee set the bag down at her feet, and brought the scatter box into both of her gloved hands. After sorting out the urns - May, Dylan, Peter, Bee, Bucky and Steve - the rest of the ashes were placed in the container, only filling it up barely halfway. She pulled off the lid and let it fall, staring down into the ashes of her older sister, her final sibling. "We all get a little," she said, turning her gaze up to Bucky. He pursed his lips and nodded, pulling her in for a little squeeze of a hug before letting her go.

She took a step closer to the gravesite, over the canvas bag, and took a spot up beside the flowers, shaking the ashes out onto the dirt and grass. She then held it out to her father, who stepped up as she did back. Then May, Peter, Greg, Dylan, Henry, Steve, Sarah, and finally Rich, who tipped the box completely over to fully empty it before handing it back over to Bee.

They stayed the night in a hotel, before they would go back to the states early in the morning. Sitting on the one queen bed, Bucky didn't say a word, but leaned his head against Steve's bare metal shoulder. On the other bed, Bianca was resting against the pillows, answering emails on her phone, the light reflecting in her wet eyes. Probably for her work at PymTech out in California, having been owned by Scott and Hope since Hank and Janet had passed away. In need of some sort of sound, Steve put the TB at a low volume on some news channel, and the two Barneses didn't say a word, knowing him.

After so long of listening to the news channel, on so low of a volume that the reporters just sounded like the adults in a Charlie Brown cartoon, Bee clicked her phone off and turned it screen-down on the bed. She spoke, voice cracking after not having used it for a little while, "He-ey, Dad?"

He lifted his head from Steve's shoulder, so he could look at her. "Yeah, honey?"

"Do you..." she paused, suddenly looking unsure. She took a few moments to go on, sounding hesitant; "Do you remember what all you said to Mom, when you came to Howard and Maria's after the attack?"

"Every word," he replied, so mournful that Steve turned his head to look at him. His face was blank, but his eyes showed to be lost in memory.

Bee moved, letting her legs fall over the side of the bed. For being almost seventy-two, she moved as if she were much younger. They guessed it was a perk of the serum, as Chrys had experienced the same effects. Her brown hair was entwined with grey, her hands and creases around her eyes and lips showing her age. Hands resting limply in her lap, she finally whispered, "I'm _so_ sorry you're losing everyone."

Bucky looked away from her, pressing his lips into a tight line as he turned his gaze on the empty foot of their bed. "I can't talk about it right now."

Steve took Bucky's hand, entwining their fingers together and giving it a comforting squeeze. He got no response.

**| 2044 |**

Bucky never fully came back. From the war, the ice, or even the Decimation. Like bits and pieces of him were left in the Wakandan grass, leaving him   
Or he was never fully thawed, something deep inside him stuck in time. That kid who was destined for more than Brooklyn believed died on the battlefield. Steve and Bucky both did.

Time. It was such a convoluted theory. Rise and fall with the sun, close your eyes to join the dark of the night, _how long did Steve spend getting his arm sawed off -?_ How long would these two men, destined to be together, age but never grow old? Living, breathing monuments, but they were just men. In pain, suffering, pieces of life that grieved and laughed just like the rest.

Steve may act like it, but he never healed. His shoulder sometimes ached, he would get phantom pains along his collarbone and spine from where the original arm had been wired into him. They weren't anywhere near as frequent as they were years before, but he got splitting headaches. Struggled with memory loss, long or short term, had days of severe brain fog where he just couldn't think or process a thing, woke up from grueling nightmares of spattered blood or his own screams of terrored torture.

Steve never tried to being up therapy. He went to his own appointments or groups, would tell Bucky how it went, but never tried to even slightly convince him into coming.

Not since Sam died.

Not since an unseen side of Bucky was unleashed.

Steve _never_ wanted to see that part of Bucky again.

<|>

Steve had been thinking. Never said a thing to Bucky, as he weighed the pros or cons, the highs and lows. He didn't like having underdeveloped ideas before he brought them up to someone, liked to be prepared in what ways he could.

But one night, as Steve was trying - and failing - to read and Bucky was writing, it just bubbled from his lips on its own accord;

"What if we had kids of our own?"

Bucky's fingers stilled on the laptop's keyboard. He had been working on this same book series for years, and was trying to bring it to a close in either the book he was working on or what would be the next one. He looked at Steve with a shocked curiosity, the light of the screen barely touching him thanks to the blue light filter he had on every device he used. "You want kids?"

"We used to amuse the idea of it, once upon a time," he started to reason, internally cursing himself out for letting it slip. "A lot of things have changed, for better or worse. Obviously, I don't need them to be happy with you and our relationship, and there's no way I'd ever force you into it -"

"I don't want kids, Steve." And just the way he said it, suddenly so weighed down, made Steve's heart break in a way he hadn't expected it to. Bucky closed the laptop and turned to set it on the nightstand, before twisting back around and shifting closer. "Don't get me wrong, I'd love to have kids with you. That's something I've always wanted, that we couldn't have." He shrugged one shoulder, helplessly. "But I got it. I had three beautiful children, that I love more than the universe itself. But I've had to watch two of them die, and each one has broken me beyond repair. I'll have to watch Bee die, too, then their children, and more and more as the years go on." He reached out, brushing his fingers over the back of Steve's hand, before turning it so he could fold their palms together. "You haven't had to watch everyone you know age and die. I have, and I'm so glad you didn't have to go through that, no matter how shocking the information had been when you got out. It's long and painful. It's torture. I already hurt so much, and you do, too - I just don't want to give ourselves more. No matter how good of parents we'd be together, or how much we would love them. I'm satisfied with knowing what could be."

Steve was just silent. It was all he could be, as he stared into Bucky's shattered irises, cracks through thick blue ice. Despite knowing Bucky so well, he hadn't thought of it like that. And once again, as he often was, he was punched in the gut with that grief and guilt, remembering landing a bullet in the space above Grant Barnes' ear, resulting in a fountain of blood that got all over him when he went to dispose of the body.

Bucky had once asked where his son's body was hidden. Steve wasn't able to tell him. They hadn't talked about it since, and Steve still couldn't remember.

"I didn't think about it like that," he admitted."

"You didn't have to -"

"You just look so happy when we have Miles, and I thought..." He trailed off, and shrugged.

"I get it. I've thought about it, but I don't think I can willingly add more grief to what I already have and will have in the future."

Steve pressed his lips into a tight line, dropping his gaze as he nodded his head.

"I'm sorry, baby. I know you've wanted this for so long, and you're doing so good with yourself, and I know you'd be such an incredible dad -"

"You were, too," he muttered, interrupting with the note.

Bucky shook his head. "Not with Bee."

"You've done more than make up for it. You know what happened wasn't your fault. She knows, too."

He reached up and pushed his palm up and down his jaw, elbow resting against his knee as he suddenly leaned into it to prop himself up. He stared at the space between their legs for a few long moments, silent, before he suddenly sat up and inhaled sharply. "I don't know where I was going," he whispered in admission.

Steve shrugged. "I think you got it."

"I lost how I was going to get to this. But - you know Chrys and Bee think of you as another parent. Especially Chrys. She loved you so much. I know it's not the same -"

"But it still means something," he finished, voice hushed.

**| 2046 |**

_"I remembered."_

_"Show me."_

Bucky threw the shovel down into the mud and leaves, silent tears streaming down his dirt-stained face. He jumped down into the dip he had made in the sloped ground of Warton State Forest, apart slipping in the wet earth. On his hands and knees, he dug deeper with his hands, letting out a grunt as he pulled up a hunk of rocks.

Steve stayed back. He could tell he wasn't welcome.

Bucky let out a shaky, wheezing breath, that then absolved into a loud sob. He leaned over his lap, hands pressed into the group as his shoulders quaked. Steve tightly wrapped his arms around himself, to keep from going down to try and comfort him.

He couldn't. Not now.

Bucky stayed in the little ditch long after his sobs vanished. New waves overtook him, as the rain picked up again and flatted his hair to his head, until he was sitting in a wet puddle. It was hours until he got up and back on the main ground, picking the shovel back up.

Grant Barnes' body was going to be covered once again. But not forgotten.

Bucky pushed the shovel into Steve's chest as he turned, and began to stomp away. Steve made to follow, calling out, "Buck -'

" _Would you just stop?_ " Bucky suddenly shouted over him, at a pitch that Steve had only heard once before, that he never wanted to hear again. He whirled around, heel perfectly turning in the mud and wet leaves. "You - you always try to fix _everything._ Some shit can't be fixed!"

"I know," he whispered, defenseless. "I'm sorry."

"Stop saying sorry for every little thing!" His hands were clenched into tight fists, so tense that the veins in the back of his hands pushed against his skin. "Steve. You killed my son. You murdered my baby. No, I don't blame you, but that doesn't just _erase_ it. It doesn't erase that he died way too fucking soon, that I had to listen to it, that I didn't get to know where his body was for thirty nine years. Just because you remembered something doesn't fix it."

Steve tried not to take it to heart. They never talked about this, it was so much better not to. But when it had suddenly popped up in his head, he had grabbed Bucky and told him before the thought left. Then they had a silent car ride, where Bucky was half-speeding.

But the words still hurt.

"I didn't think it did," he protested, behind gritted teeth."

"Really? Are you sure? Nothing, no amount of apologies or time is gonna help this. You fixed yourself. But you need to stop trying to fix me. It's not gonna work, I'm not gonna spew all my deep, dark, fucked up thoughts to some middle aged woman in a blouse that uses Bath and Body Works' _Sweet Pea_."

And of course, his mouth took it's own control; "You didn't even try! You just immediately wrote it off and decided to wallow!"

"Of course I wrote it off! I have no idea how the hell you're so trusting, after what happened to you -"

" _Don't go there_ -"

"- but I'm not doing it. I'm not. You're a success story, and that's good for you, but that's not me. You're better than me, you always have been."

"Buck, that's not it."

"It is! The world wanted you, threw me out like rotten apples as soon as they could. I didn't have a home, my daughters were kept from me, I almost got mugged a couple times because 'hey, why should we not try to jump an enhanced soldier?'" He scoffed, shaking his head. "I don't know why you even told me about this. You shouldn't have brought it up."

Steve's shoulders sagged. "You've wanted to know where he was for a while, Buck. I was just trying -"

"Trying," he snapped, with sharp venom. "Try, try, try. That's all you talk about. Try this, try that. Let's go to pottery class, let's host Thanksgiving, let me read your shit, try writing all your fucked up memories down - _I'm so sick and fucking tired of trying!_ "

Later on, as they laid in bed, back to back as they barely ever were, Bucky whispered, "I'm sorry I yelled. I didn't mean a lot of it...You didn't deserve that."

Steve didn't look at him. "I know."

<|>

"Take a left," Steve spoke quietly, only for the comm in his ear to pick up. He heard Bucky's controlled breaths. They were the only two in the field.

Steve had stayed true to his promise to Bucky, as the years went on. The only time he asked Bucky to take part in a mission was if they needed extra manpower, or any of his expertise. It had only been a couple times, and Bucky understood. At least he seemed like he did.

Steve raised his finger to the side of the goggles he wore, adopted from Sam ages ago. The map of the building zoomed out, showing two green dots that represented himself and Bucky - Steve wished there was another for the guy they were going after. It was a simple but not so simple mission. Drug dealer and addict stole a piece of equipment that could fund him for years, but experimentation had gone wrong.

As it ever seemed to.

For the most part, Steve ignored the feedback from Bucky's line of the comms system, taking the groupies he ran into out fast and merciless, methodical and all business. There was no need to take precious time, or play easygoing defense while people were waiting on them. Low-income families that had been taken in, tricked into experimentation, torture.

But if he punched someone's teeth out with his knee, that wasn't his fault.

He slammed his fist into a man's square jaw, hard enough to knock him out, as something new came from Bucky's line. A bang, not a gunshot, but what exactly Steve wasn't sure. Then a low swear under his breath, followed by a forlorn plea; " _Please don't make me shoot!_ "

Steve threw his elbow back into an incoming's throat, not even turning around before he had heard their collapse. "Buck?" he asked, a quiet attempt to get his attention.

" _I know you're hurting. I know_." Steve's brow furrowed behind the eyepiece, but he surged on as he listened. "You were part of an experiment. I was, too. Just put these down, and I promise, I will do everything I can to help you." He made a choked sound, static smothering specifics. As much Steve knew how capable Bucky was in the field, the terror he felt when he heard him over the comms never went away. And with Bucky being retired beyond special cases, he felt it just got worse, even though Bucky regularly used the punching bag downstairs and stayed fresh on the practice.

So when he heard a familiar sharp sound of pain, Steve raced even faster over the dirty concrete, pushing harder when a shout punched from Bucky's throat. In a quick sequence, two gunshots sounded, and Steve's steps faltered as he came to a sudden stop. Dread kept him in a stunned place as Bucky gasped, "Oh god...No, sweetie - oh god - I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry." A sob shocked his words, breaking them to pieces.

"Bucky," Steve tried, doing his best to seep the confusion from his voice. He didn't need to worry about whatever happened. He just needed to know if Bucky was okay. "Bucky, baby -"

A messy ramble was what he got, and he could tell it wasn't even aimed at him. Steve brought his finger up to the side of the goggles, bringing up the map and GPS. The fact that he could turn the line off was never on his mind, as he raced through the maze of halls and stairwells, taking out a few enemies on his way.

When Steve finally skidded through the open door, it was to Bucky cradling a child of no more than nine in his arms, curled around them, staring down at the bloody bullet holes on the side of her forehead and her cheek. With a start, his head whipped up to look at Steve, and his face scrunched up with a new wave, so heavy that he bowed his head as he let the new sobs wash over him. "I didn't mean - Steve, I didn't -"

He dropped to his knees beside the huddled figures, eyes scanning the scene. An assortment of blades - from kitchen knives, daggers, machetes, butcher tools - were scattered over to the floor, quivering like pebbles during an earthquake.

"She's a baby, Steve." If he didn't know better, he'd say that Bucky's voice was high and squeaky. Somehow, alongside his usual deep tone, they co-existed. He let out a mournful sigh, lifting his hand to run through Bucky's long hair, as he once again whispered, this time with a wretched sob, " _She's just a baby_."

<|>

It's like the blood and gunpowder could never wash off. It stayed, everlasting, like glitter in the wash and painful memories.

He was trying, wasn't he? Even as Bucky made it impossible. At the moment, there weren't any harsh words. Just silence. He wouldn't look at Steve for more than a few moments, didn't open his email, didn't once move to write. Just stayed in bed, only leaving it for necessities.

Steve didn't feel welcome. But until he was told, he wasn't going to shy away. Every night, he got himself ready for bed and laid on his designated side, even if his back was to Bucky or Bucky's was to him. Last night had gone well, he thought. He had opened his arms and Bucky had curled up against him. Allowed him to press comforting little kisses to his skin and head, even whisper soft words. They'd fallen asleep like that, arms around each other and Bucky's face shoved into Steve's neck.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, taking a moment before he would turn on his hips and lay down. Before he could, Bucky's heavy voice startled him; "Why do you keep asking me to go on missions?"

That wasn't something he had been expecting, in all truth. Bucky hadn't spoken much, beyond the basics. Sometimes not even then. Their house was silent and grey, inexhaustible.

"You promised me," he pushed, when the blond didn't answer. He repeated, voice quivering as he was trying so hard to keep it level, " _You promised me_. But you've asked multiple times, and I couldn't say no. You know I couldn't say no."

"I've only asked you a few times. I know I promised, but you were needed, and it barely ever happens -"

"I killed a little girl, Steve. I shot her in the head. I had no choice."

 _At least it wasn't an orphanage filled with kids just like her._ He desperately pushed the thought away, unwilling to let that take over right now. This was bad enough, but having his own struggles come up would make this worse.

Steve didn't have anything to say to that. He shook his head, his expression an open door to his helplessness, his aching heart, and found himself admitting, "I don't know what's happening."

Bucky didn't immediately respond, eyes narrowing in confusion. "What?"

"I don't know what's happening," he echoed himself, speaking with more force. "I really don't. You're still you, you're still Buck, but you're not..." He trailed off, looking away from him. He couldn't say this if he was looking at him. The admission was released as a hushed breath, but it was finally let out into the atmosphere; "Sometimes I look at you and it's like I don't even know you."

**| 2047 |**

Skin shining from sweating during his routine run, Steve locked the door behind him, then toed off his shoes. It was a bit lonely, not having a running buddy. Bucky sometimes went with him, but other times he did his own energy-reducing exercise in the basement, to get definite time alone.

The love was still there. They both knew it was. Bucky made love to him so sweetly that Steve almost forgot about all the issues they had when the sun came up. It wasn't every day that they struggled. Sometimes Bucky would let Steve hold him, kiss him, make him warm soup after having a nightmare - which, for the both of them, had increased. It was just a peak of another mountain.

Steve missed his Bucky. The one he fell in love with, the one that was there for him after decades of torture, became a criminal just for him. But the Bucky he knew wasn't the one he was living with. Hadn't been for a while, outside of little flashes.

"Buck?" he called out into the house. He usually got some sort of response, unless they were still licking their wounds after a fight.

Nothing. But they weren't in a fight right now, he thought? They had a good morning. Bucky had made him coffee just the way he liked it, they had made out against the kitchen counter like a pair of teenagers, and then Steve made breakfast and Bucky hadn't protested.

"Bucky?" He tried again, louder this time. But the air remained still.

Labored breaths caught his attention. Pain, nightmare, exertion - something. Upstairs, the bedroom.

As Steve started up the stairs, his head was a whirlwind, a tornado ruining the inside of his brain. Maybe Bucky had a big workout that actually made him out of breath. Maybe, maybe, maybe. And the awful, paranoid, _he wouldn't cheat...would he?_

The door was wide open, showing their empty bed, in the same state they had left it in that morning, after sunrise sex so good it left Steve feeling all light and floaty. The sound was louder now, for him, and he stepped into the room - almost hesitant, as if he really didn't want to know what the sound was coming from.

With a glance into the bathroom, it was answered, as horror dropped so hard into his stomach that it dropped behind his pelvis. He darted into the bathroom, dropping to his knees on the bloodstained white tile. Bucky flinched away, the knives through his wrists scraping against the tops of his thighs. Steve reached for one of them, but Bucky jerked and twisted away, the tears that had built in his eyes streaming down his cheeks.

"No, Bucky, please - you can't do this," he gasped, grabbing Bucky's face. "Not after everything we've been through. You can't, this isn't -"

"Steve..." was all he said, and through the block in his throat, all Steve could respond with was a broken version of his lover's name.

This wasn't a fight either of them would win, no matter if the knives were pulled or not.

"Just..." he inhaled, sharp and shallow. "Steve, can you hold me?"

Steve gingerly came to fully sit down, shifting to cradle Bucky against his front, chest to his strong back. As gentle as he could, he smoothed his hands over the brunet's sides, until he was hugging him around his abdomen. The silence persevered, and Steve wasn't at all okay with that. But he didn't want to make Bucky uncomfortable. Not now.

"I tried," the man stuck in time finally murmured. "I tried so hard, baby, I did. Everyone's gone and i-it-it's all I can think about. I love you so much, I'm so lucky I have you...I'm just so...so tired. I don't have anything left. I haven't been able to be happy - genuinely happy, in so long. Steve, it just hurts."

"I know." Nodding his head, he repeated, "I know, honey. Don't - don't think I didn't."

Bucky turned into his chest, tilting so they were almost at ninety degrees, so Bucky could look up at him. He started to raise his shaking hand, but brought it back down and instead asked, "Can you - I..." He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, before opening them again and letting the breath out. "Kiss me. Please."

Steve brought his hand up to touch underneath Bucky's chin, tilting his jaw up as he craned his own head down, pressing their lips together. There wasn't any sweetness, just a sickly grief, with a tired love that never died. Not in the Alps, not under the pressure of electroshock, not in suburban New York, not even through the fights and Bucky's sharp pain. The kiss lingered, and even when it parted they stayed close, unwilling to separate.

But Bucky was leaving him. The blood pooling along the tile was too warm, but Steve wasn't going to move.

"I hate you so much," he broke the silence with a trembling statement, their lips brushing. Steve let his hand fall from beneath Bucky's chin, and his head sagged before resting against Steve's chest.

Bucky sniffled, giving him a wavering, watery smile. "I know you do."

"Top favorite memories," he murmured, brushing his lips over the brunet's hairline. "Go."

"Oh, Jesus," Bucky breathed out. "No order...Seeing you," he paused to inhale shakily, "seeing you for the first time, when-whe-when you got me off of Zola's table. Holding my babies for the first time...Does that count as three...as three or one?"

"One," Steve clarified, muffled against Bucky's hair.

"Um..." A tear slipped down the slope of Bucky's cheek, and Steve wiped at it with the pad of his thumb with tender care. "Making forts and playing Candy Land. Convi...convincing Tony to take Stark Industries." There was a long pause between words, that tugged incessantly at Steve's heart. "Every time...every time we've kissed, or I watched you sketch. You're cute when you're drawing."

He squeezed his eyes shut, a devastatingly pitiful chuckle leaving him, arms tightening around Bucky's torso.

"What about you?" Bucky's voice was almost non-existent.

Steve knew that Bucky could've gone on, but decided to humor him. "Coming to the Avengers Compound, once I got out of the clinic. Our wedding night." Bucky scoffed, but it was more of a gasping choke of a breath. Steve barrelled on, doing his very best to keep himself from falling apart, when Bucky needed him. "Going back to see my mom, when I returned the gems." He cleared his throat, sniffling slightly. "I don't even know, Buck. Every moment with you is the best."

"You flatter me," he said, so far beyond a whisper.

"Of course, I do," he countered, voice wavering. "I love you, so much."

"I love you, Steve. With - with every part of me that I've ever...ever been able to -" He inhaled, ragged and desperate. "Everything that I've ever been able to give you...You've always had me. All of me. These past couple years, I just haven't been able to give what I didn't have." Steve inhaled shakily, fighting back his own tears as hard as he could. Bucky fell silent, only known by his shallow breaths, before he spoke in such a terrified, small voice, that tore ruthlessly at Steve's efforts; "Steve?"

"I'm here - I'm here, Bucky. It's -" His throat constricted, forcing him to a stop. Desperately, on the verge of horrible tears, he lied, "It's okay. It's okay."

"Keep talking? Please?"

Steve couldn't fight the strangled sob that tore from him, his arms tightening even more around Bucky's abdomen. He did his very best to gather himself again, but his speech was pressured and broken into pieces. "I wanted you so badly, once I came to the Compound. I never said a word because I wasn't sure if you still wanted me that way. But we weren't just friends either, and I could see the love you had for me in everything you did. I barely even used that guest room, you never said a thing when I didn't move from your bed. Honestly, I was okay with everything we had at that point. We were together, we just didn't touch. I didn't need that to see that you loved me. It was in the food you made and your smiles. You'd roll your eyes when I made you watch Disney movies over and over, but you cuddled right up beside me and cried with me when the sad parts came."

And here they were, doing just that. Crying together, as they were never afraid to do.

He knew exactly when Bucky inhaled his last breath, the life bleeding out of him. The lump in his throat, that got bigger and bigger as he fought down to worst of his tears, made his voice, barely existent as he cut himself off and begged, "Just - Buck, just one more -" A sob dissected his useless plea. "Just one more breath. One more, please, please, please..." _Please don't leave, just come back, no, no - why, God, Bucky, why would you leave me alone? I can't do this without you, I can't go back to staring at spiders making webs in corners, I can't I can't I can't - without you I'm just a lost soldier, a broken piece, missing his other half - his partner, his best friend, his fate-defying Sergeant._

But, through the tears, Steve kept talking. Just as Bucky had asked him to. Sobbing, grief-driven rambles that had too much meaning, fruitless pleas for this to have been a dream - for everything to have just been one long hallucination, begging for Zola to wake him back up and put an end to this. He pulled the knives from his wrists so he could hold him closer, weeping with his face pressed into his shoulder.

For hours, even after he finally fell silent, he didn't move. Not when the moon sank and the sun came up. Not when he officially ran out of tears, the waves no longer existing, just a barren wasteland of a beach left behind. Not when Bucky's blood had completely dried in his clothing, binding to the fibers of articles he would never again wear.

The pure evening sunlight wormed its way between the two curtains, turning their skin to different shades of gold. Steve raised his head, eyes flooding with tears once again. He pushed his trembling right hand back through Bucky's hair, pressing his lips to his temple. His head rested limply against the broad expanse of his chest, tucked under Steve's chin. For the first time in so long, a bystander could see exactly where one man started and the other began. It was a jagged break, a never-ending emptiness that now resided within Steve's chest, so familiar to what he had felt after he watched the love of his life break down into dust. But having to hold him, watch him bleed out and listen to each shallow breath become harder and harder to take...it was somehow more real. Ashes failed to remain ashes, built back up with stubbornness and victory; but blood would be blood, a red stain on the white bathroom tile to remind Steve of this day. The day Bucky Barnes took his final breath.

A day they never thought they would see, in all their years.

<|>

_"Darling, please take my hand_   
_Please get up, rise to stand_   
_I can't be the one to sing your song_   
_'Cause I believe it's not your fault_   
_Don't be scared, you are my rock_   
_Nothing's gonna hold you down for long_

_In good time, you'll come to know_   
_When you release, when you let go_   
_You can find yourself where you belong_   
_You're not a curse, you're not too much_   
_You are needed here, you are enough_   
_And nothing's gonna hold you down for long_

_Darling please don't give up_   
_Drop your hate and sing for love_   
_Let me be the one who sings along_

_Sometimes we break so beautiful_   
_And you know you're not the only one_   
_I breathe you in, so sweet and powerful_   
_Like a wildfire burning up inside my lungs"_

_SYML_ _, Wildfire (Alternate Version)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit. That's the end.  
> That's it.  
> So much more than the eight chapters I meant to forever leave on a cliffhanger. More than one little bonus chapter, or one heartbreaking POV.
> 
> This story has always been powered by grief. Rule The World Or Drown is by far the best thing I have ever written. It was charged by my own loss and ruin, the only thing I was able to write for a while after my dad died. This story is one I hold dear, even the bonus chapters I struggled with. but finished - not because I owed it to my audience, but because I owed it to myself.
> 
> My dad brought Marvel into my life. That means he brought some of my favorite people, my ideas, and my readers, into my life as well. I have him to thank for so much, not just this.
> 
> I never let him read my writing because it was never perfect, or had mature parts I was embarrassed for him to read. I just really wanted what he read to be right. So I waited. For years, I waited. Until he died. I had a poem placed in the urn I got. That's all I'll ever be able to give him.
> 
> This whole thing is for my dad.
> 
> PS: I was writing some of this in the car the other day, trying not to cry. I was listening to the In All Our Years playlist I have, and a song came up. It just immediately clicked, for me. Wildfire, by SYML. In that moment, it just felt like such an ode to Steve and Bucky. The song is beautiful, I strongly advise giving the alternate version a listen.  
> Thank you all, so much, for reading. For the kudos, the comments, the love and support you've all given me. I appreciate it more than you know.


End file.
